Shadow of a Name
by Yesac
Summary: Padme Amidala of Naboo has agreed to a marriage with Lord Vader. Vader is not considered a good man, unless, of course, one asks the opinion of Obi-Wan Kenobi-though Padme cannot say why that is, considering Obi-Wan's position in the royal household.
1. Chapter 1

Right, so, I'm aware that it's been awhile since I've posted a story. And here's the thing—I can't promise regular updates on this. I'm actually in England at the moment doing two terms at Oxford University, so my time is _really _limited. This story is about two-thirds written, though, so I figured I'd start putting some of it up. I figured that would be better than nothing. And who knows—maybe I'll get a huge burst of inspiration from reviews/editing the story/posting it/whatever.

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><p>"After this shall succeed two dragons, whereof one shall be killed with the sting of envy, but the other shall return under the shadow of a name" –<em>History of the Kings of Britain<em> by Geoffrey of Monmouth

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><p>Anakin Skywalker is an attractive man. Tall, with dark blond, wavy hair that falls around his face, he looks remarkably like the holonet portrays him. Maybe when someone looks this good, the reporters don't feel the need to alter his appearance. His eyes are brighter in person, though—sharper, and a more prominent blue. They snap with intelligence, and not for the first time, Padme has to wonder just what she has gotten herself into.<p>

He cuts a handsome figure in his black military robes, tall—much taller than she is—and broad in the shoulders. It's possible that the way he's built adds to his presence, but Padme is rather inclined to think that, even if he were shorter and slighter, he'd still command the respect of everyone in the room.

No, Anakin Skywalker is not the pawn she supposed him to be. Ten minutes in his company—none of that spent talking, as one does generally not talk when standing at the altar—and she can guarantee that. The way his eyes rove over her, assessing, hints of someone who notices details, who plays them to his advantage. A political pawn has no need for that… but Skywalker—he is something else entirely.

"I do," she says when asked, even if she _doesn't_—not really. Judging by the ironic twist of his lips—so slight, not enough to draw the attention of anyone in the crowd—he is fully aware of that.

And then they are married. Legally.

She doesn't think she could hate him any more than she does at this moment.

He does not kiss her, thankfully. Here, in front of all these people, she's not sure she could tolerate it. As things stand, the way he settles his hand on her back—proprietary, and she will _not _be owned—sends skitters of unease and disgust up her spine. His touch won't burn away her flesh, but it's hard not to irrationally wonder if, maybe, it _will_, and she'll be left standing here as literally naked as she already emotionally feels.

Once she's been led away from the altar—all to the obligatory applause of the spectators—he escorts her out the doors of the large ceremonial room and into a small waiting area. A normal newly married bride might be ecstatic to be alone with her husband, but, Force help her, she'd rather face down all manner of rapacious creatures—she couldn't _be_ more relieved at the fact that they don't seem to be slated for any immediate bonding time.

Bonding. As if she ever could with this man. This _Sith_.

Of course, she's not foolish enough to think that the man who trails after them out of the ceremony—he'd stood up with Skywalker at the wedding, the only one to do so—will possibly be on her side. Still, his familiarity with Skywalker suggests that he might be something of a distraction, at the very least. Someone to talk to, perhaps—or someone for Skywalker to talk to who is not _her_.

Skywalker pulls the double doors shut behind them, ensconcing them in an opulent sitting room. At a loss for what else to do, she slips over to one of the large ceiling-to-floor windows and frees her gaze to wander out over the picture Coruscant makes in the late afternoon light. In the corner of her vision, she sees the other man settle in a chair on the right side of the room.

The dying light of the day catches in his hair, and the color, mixed with the way the light ripples when disturbed by a passing speeder outside the window, reminds her of dancing flames. Though, not burning, but more flowing. A river of flame.

This other man—he's less threatening than Skywalker. It's not that he strikes her as a weak personality—quite the opposite, actually. But, unlike Skywalker, he doesn't radiate energy. He's calmer, subtler about the way he takes things in, and therefore less intimidating… though, she suspects that if he wished, he _could _be about as off-putting as he wanted.

Of course, she has no idea who he is. She was told nothing about what she was walking into. No, the bitter twist in her gut reminds her. Every sleepless night, every grinding nerve, _everything, _until she'd wanted to scream—and she _had_ screamed. Oh, she _had_, but it had come out long and low and sounding like a _yes_. Yes,because she hadn't want Naboo to face decreased trade contracts, or the possibility that, over the course of a few years, it might be cut off from trade who knew? Perhaps there might even be some sort of outbreak of disease. Malnutrition makes the immune system vulnerable, after all.

There was never a "no_"_ in her—not when it was her people who would pay the price. And so she has willingly agreed to be a trophy and an incubator, ahem, _wife, _to Anakin Skywalker.

Once the doors shut, Skywalker turns sharply on his heel, tucking his hands behind his back as he turns to face her. In the chair across the room, the other man lifts his right ankle to rest on his opposite knee, settling more deeply into the chair as he watches the situation unfold, a mild frown tugging the corners of his lips downward.

Skywalker lifts an eyebrow. "Oh, don't be like that, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan volleys back Skywalker's glance with a raised eyebrow of his own. "I haven't said anything."

Snorting lightly—oddly, he manages to make it fairly dignified—Skywalker eyes the man a little longer, shaking his head, before finally looking away to favor her with a slight smile. "I'm sorry. Obi-Wan is being very rude, and I'm afraid his manners are influencing me—"

"—not my doing—" she thinks she hears Obi-Wan mumble.

"—and for that I apologize." How sincere he seems, with his head slightly inclined and a small smile turning his mouth far more generous than it appears when he's leading stormtroopers out to annihilate anyone who disagrees with his father the Emperor. His lips are always thinned then, set and determined, like murder is a simple task to be accomplished with the greatest concentration.

This time, it is Obi-Wan who rises from his chair, tucking his hands behind his back and mirroring Skywalker in position—or Skywalker may have even learned it from Obi-Wan, as Obi-Wan seems to be the older of the two—halting what Padme is sure would have been an introduction by Skywalker. Somehow, she appreciates that this man sees fit to introduce himself. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he says calmly, stepping toward her, extending one of his hands.

She takes it, letting it swallow her own smaller one, and, strangely enough, finds that she does not feel the same animosity toward him as she does toward Skywalker. And, yet, she still has no concept of who this man is—only that he apparently works for a man she hates. He must if he's this familiar with Skywalker, and she doubts he's here out of genuine affection—Sith Lords do not tend to inspire that.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi. And you are Padme Naberrie, yes?"

She nods. "Of Naboo."

"I'm aware," he says, lips curling into a knowing smile, causing his beard to twitch.

Ah, so then he's aware of why she's married Skywalker. So much can be conveyed with so few words.

"I'm quite pleased to meet you, Obi-Wan Kenobi."

He nods. "Likewise."

Again, all she detects is sincerity. And his eyes—they seem honest, almost warm. They're changeable in color, yes—even up close, it's difficult to determine whether they're blue or green—but they don't hint at shifting motives. That may seem absurd—judging someone so quickly seems unwise—but she has always been a remarkably good judge of character. And this man strikes her as very different from Skywalker.

"Padme _Skywalker_, actually," Anakin interjects, just the barest hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Or Lady Vader if you prefer formal titles."

She won't turn to look at him. Won't give him the satisfaction. "I do not, actually."

"Padme Skywalkerit is then."

Obi-Wan shoots him something of a reproachful gaze. "Anakin, surely-"

It seems Obi-Wan has finally reach some sort of limit: Anakin's brows pinch together, and his stare grows sharper. "This was not my doing, Obi-Wan." A warning. Not yet a rebuke, but both she and Obi-Wan seem to read his words as the command for silence that they are. "Now, would you please show Lady Skywalker to her quarters?"

"Anakin—"

"I'm not _really_ asking, Obi-Wan."

Then, she has to wonder, why pretend to?

Stilling, Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, glancing away toward the windows. For a few moments he seems to be far more interested in the flow of traffic outside the window. Frankly, she expects Skywalker to push the issue: instead, he does the opposite and simply waits, permitting the delay, saying nothing until Obi-Wan turns back toward him, face passive, and nods.

"Yes, My Lord."

How strange that the title brings a smile—an ironic one, but still a smile—to Skywalker's lips. It's not a _pleased _expression—he's not gloating at being addressed in such a way—but it _is_ very knowing, as though he suspects Obi-Wan of using it in a way that's not quite conventional. To her ears, she has to admit that it sounded like something of a rebuke, veiled in the guise of respect.

It's something to think on.

Moving away from the window, Obi-Wan smoothes out a line in the dark blue tunic that he's wearing and tips his head toward her. When he does finally make his way in her direction, his movements are collected, and if a moment ago he wasn't fond of the task of escorting her, there's nothing in his manner to suggest that he objects to it now.

Given that they were just married, it's certainly strange that Skywalker is sending her off with another man… but it's not as though she wants to voice a protest. Already she's far more comfortable with Obi-Wan than with her husband. Force only knows what that ought to mean.

When Obi-Wan offers her his arm, she slips her own through it, allowing him to lead her toward the door. Everything about his actions is solicitous, and if this man is a gentleman as she is beginning to believe that he is, why is he working for the Empire?

"And, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan pauses at the sound of Skywalker's voice, hand on the door. "Hmm?"

"I want to see you later."

"I'm sure."

"_Obi-Wan_."

"Fine. Yes."

"Later does not mean tomorrow."

It's probably for the best that Obi-Wan has not turned around and is instead still facing the door: she doubts that Skywalker would appreciate the sudden, amused upturn of his lips. The beard does some work to hide it, but she's certain Skywalker would catch it. He seems to be quite familiar with Obi-Wan's moods and actions.

"Yes, all right," he says finally.

Skywalker is apparently satisfied with that, because he says nothing more, and Obi-Wan pulls the doors open, guiding her out into the hallway. They're alone then, no Skywalker to consider, and, in his place, she finds herself considering Obi-Wan further.

He can't be more than forty, and if she had to guess, she'd place him somewhere in his mid-thirties. Without the beard, he might seem younger, but even clean-shaven, there would be no way to hide the age in his eyes. Whoever he is, he's seen things, done things—probably things she would never understand, and it shows in the way he holds himself, even in the way he talks. There is no obvious youthful exuberance in him—there probably hasn't been for a very long time.

"You work for him?" she asks once the doors have closed behind them, blocking Skywalker from hearing. Her husband or not, she's not ready—probably never will be—to share her thoughts with him.

Obi-Wan dips his head, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "You find that undesirable, I presume?"

"Two months ago, I saw footage of him slaughtering living, breathing beings. I find _him _undesirable."

If her opinions shake him, he doesn't show it. And, really, why would she tell him that at all? Does she _want _him to go back and tell Skywalker?

Actually, she may want exactly that. She may be here, married to a monster, but she doesn't have to let him think that she likes him.

"You could do worse," Obi-Wan replies simply.

"Oh?" What? Marry a Hutt?

"You could have been forced to marry Palpatine like Anakin's mother was."

Yes. How convenient that, just when she thinks she's gotten the worst situation in the world, this man manages to prove her wrong. She shouldn't really be irritated by that, but, at the moment, she would prefer to indulge in the frivolous action of self-pity. And here he has to go and ruin that.

"The holonet framed her as lucky if I recall."

Though Obi-Wan's arm tenses under her hold, he hardly pauses. "You don't believe that."

"And apparently neither do you." That's far more surprising—he's the one who is finding his employment with these sorts of people. And that—it doesn't make sense. He doesn't seem like that type, but… here he is.

Obi-Wan just shrugs, turning down another hallway. "Apparently not."

"And you? Why_ do_ youwork for Skywalker?"

Never faltering, he raises both eyebrows, shrugging lightly, letting his gaze fall toward the walls, as though he actually cares about the fine art that's there. "Why did _you_ marry him?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"Hmm. Yes."

Oh. _Oh_. How insensitive can she possibly be? She ought to have known, or at least guessed. Maybe if she hadn't been so focused on herself, she might have. As a senator, she's usually better at this sort of thing—quite good, actually.

"So you—you don't—but you don't seem like you hate him—" If Skywalker or Palpatine is somehow using extortion to ensure Obi-Wan's employment, she would have expected more hostility.

But there is not. There's nothing. He doesn't flinch or glower when Skywalker's name is mentioned. And to some degree, he has even defended Skywalker—not blatantly, but enough to make it clear that he doesn't hate the man.

Right, and that's just—dear Force, what _has _she walked into? Madness, obviously, but at least Obi-Wan seems content to let her be silent about it—to process as much as she possibly can. He says nothing further, anyway, and if not for the slightly prickly sensation skittering over her—as a senator, she's learned how it feels when she's being watched—she'd have thought he was hardly paying attention. No doubt he is, though, and if she hadn't noticed it, the small glance he gives her when he stops at a door would probably have disabused her of that notion. Unlike the double doors from earlier, this one is electronic: he punches in the code with a few quick flicks of his fingers, and the door slides open.

"I don't hate him," he tells her, holding out his arm and beckoning for her to precede him into the room. "Anakin is… complicated. But there is good in him. He is not his father."

How absurd. From the way Obi-Wan is talking, it sounds as though he thinks there is hope for Skywalker. It's unfathomable. She saw Vader, just weeks ago, put down a rebellion on Alderaan. The way he killed—it was so _cold_, like it was a job. He hadn't cared.

And she is married to that monster. She is _married _to him, and she will have to _sleep _with him, and—

She ends her line of thought there.

"So you stay because you think there is hope for him?"

"I didn't say I could leave. I merely said I think there _is _hope for him."

"Then, what, exactly, _is _your position?"

No flicker of anything on his face, but his eyes—there is something there. It's too deep for her to get at, and it's gone before she can try, but her comment has, somehow, affected him. "I suggest you ask Anakin that. In the meantime, I hope you'll find your quarters suitable."

Only if Skywalker isn't in them… and _is _he going to be? Everything about the room is well-done, tasteful, with classic solid wood furniture, and wide windows that look out over Coruscant, but if he intends to share with her, there's nothing that could possibly make them tolerable.

Obi-Wan knows: he sighs, watching her sympathetically. "They're _yours_, My Lady. Anakin doesn't sleep here."

Is she mistaken, or does he seem almost sad for her? He certainly appears to be blinking just a little more rapidly than before, not nervous, but… unsettled, as though her worry has dredged up his to be directed at her.

"Padme, please, Obi-Wan," she corrects him. If she has to stay here, she would at least like familiarity with someone. Is it too much to hope that perhaps she and Obi-Wan could be friends? It would be lonely without a friend, she thinks, making her way over to the bed and laying a hand on the comforter. It's soft, durable—more luxurious than she was used to, even as a Senator.

A nod. "Padme, then. Now, I need to go. Anakin is… not patient, especially not when he has questions he wants answered."

Her hand stills. "Questions? What about?"

"Oh?" He cocks his head to the side just slightly with a hint of amusement. "You can't guess?"

Of course she can: Anakin wants him to report on her. It's just—she doesn't want it to be true. Still, no sense in avoiding the truth. If Obi-Wan is willing to be blunt with her, she can at least return the favor. "And what will you tell him?"

"That I approve of you."

Well. That—he hadn't seemed _disapproving, _but, somehow, hearing that—it holds meaning. Here is this man, whom she doesn't know, and who works for Skywalker, and, yet, she is already valuing his opinion. Strange.

"I'm flattered. Will your opinion carry much weight?"

"When Anakin _asks_ for it, it does. Given spontaneously I find that he's not quite so apt to listen to it. In this case, however, he has asked, so, yes." He pauses then, giving her a small smile as he crosses the room and heads to the door, which slides open under his touch. "If you require anything, the servants will be more than willing to help you. Do you need anything else from me personally?"

"Answers," she admits, crossing her arms. An impulsive reply, but she doesn't regret it.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, amused. "We all need answers, Padme. But I'm afraid I'd be overstepping my bounds if I so obviously gave them to you."

Obviously? Meaning what? "In that case, no, I don't need anything else from you."

Giving her a deep bow—she's strangely reminded of how the Jedi used to do that before they were annihilated—he leaves the room, pausing just outside the door. Oddly enough, he seems almost serene, and certainly collected in his emotions: his face is smooth with lack of expression. "Anakin will probably want to have first meal with you tomorrow."

"Tell him I'm ill."

His lips thin, holding back laughter that gives itself away in the tensing of his cheeks. "I'll tell him you'll attend."

"Goodnight, Obi-Wan."

The door shuts behind him. Yes, goodnight indeed. Goodnight to any chance of a life.

And why does she get the sense that Obi-Wan knows exactly how she feels?


	2. Chapter 2

"So?" Anakin asks when Obi-Wan returns. He's sprawled on his couch, flicking through channels on the holonet, but as soon as Obi-Wan enters, he clicks the device off and tosses the remote aside. Sprawling back casually, his gaze eases over toward Obi-Wan.

"So, I think you should get to know her yourself," Obi-Wan answers, settling on the chair next to the couch and helping himself to the dinner that's been left for Anakin. Someone must have brought it while he was escorting the young Senator back to her room. Typical. Force forbid Anakin would ever go fetch his own dinner.

Though Anakin glances at the food as Obi-Wan reaches for it, he says nothing about it. "I will. But I want your opinion."

"You know I approve of her. I _suggested_ her."

Sighing, Anakin kicks his feet up a little higher on the couch and sinks back further into the cushions. "Oh? And here I was under the impression that the _Emperor _selected her."

"Yes, just as I'm sure Palpatine was under the impression that those files were not edited."

"_You_ did that. I just hacked the system so you _could_ do it."

Yes, and a clever thing it had been. It's not that Obi-Wan particularly likes deception and misdirection—quite the opposite, actually—but finding out that Palpatine wanted Anakin to marry and produce an heir… "It was a situation that could have gone so disastrously wrong. I knew it. You knew it. It was enough that we _both _knew it."

Anakin shrugs, but the way his fingers fidget over the cushions of the couch hint at agreement. "I just didn't want to be stuck with a simpering idiot for a wife."

Quite true, yes, but that's not _all _of it. After some persuasion, Obi-Wan is fairly confident that he managed to make Anakin realize that, if someone was properly selected, not only could he avoid associating with someone very dim, but he might even gain a person who could actually aid him. A wife with intelligence could be an asset. Still, he can't quite blame Anakin for his lingering hesitance. Marriage is… binding? Unknown? Difficult? Complicated. Definitely complicated.

Obi-Wan takes another bite of food just to hide his frown. No, he can't blame Anakin for that hesitancy. There is still so much that could go wrong.

"She's not a simpering idiot. She's quite smart, actually."

"Of course she is. She wouldn't serve your purposes if she weren't," Anakin drawls, glancing over at Obi-Wan out of the corner of his eye. The glance may seem casual, just like the way Anakin is sprawled back against the couch, but, oh, it isn't, and that look is underwritten with danger just as surely as that sprawl could turn into a chokehold.

Still, Obi-Wan ignores his comment. Best not to touch that until he has to—and he _will _have to, because the truth is, he _did _have other motives. Anakin had known that, of course. He always knows when Obi-Wan has other motives, and even if he doesn't quite know what they are (though, occasionally, he does), Obi-Wan is aware that he trusts they won't explicitly cause him harm. And when Obi-Wan's motives can be used to aid his own—well, more the better, and he's certainly more than willing to let Obi-Wan get what he wants so long as he does too.

Like now.

"I didn't rewrite her file," Obi-Wan says stiffly, pausing before taking another bite. "I just changed a few of the other files to make their subjects less desirable. Naboo already made Miss Naberrie valuable to Palpatine."

Reaching out, Anakin snags a piece of food, hardly even noticing when the sauce smears on his fingers. "Share that," he says, fending off Obi-Wan's attempt at a particularly good looking piece of meat. "Yeah, his home planet. I know. She could make it look like he still gave a—"

"_Anakin_."

"Like he still cared. Force, Obi-Wan, I'm not nine anymore. Stop trying to correct my language."

Obi-Wan grabs the piece of meat Anakin had wanted. Ignoring the other man's glare, he pops it into his mouth, taking his time chewing, before he acknowledges Anakin's point. A stall? No, not particularly. Not at all, actually. Just a way to make Anakin wait, because it saws at his nerves, and over the years Obi-Wan has learned how to push buttons. "It's not diplomatic."

"I'm not a diplomat. If I don't like something, I can send an army to go settle it."

"In no way does that mean you _should_."

"Like I shouldn't force a girl to marry me?"

"Precisely."

There's some satisfaction to be had in the fact that, clearly, Anakin didn't expect him to agree. Goodness, had he really thought Obi-Wan was in favor of forcing some poor girl into this? He was the furthest thing away from being in favor of it. But, regrettably, it had been sure to inevitably happen, and so he'd done the best he could: he'd picked someone strong, and someone, who, Force willing—and Obi-Wan certainly hopes it is—might be able to bring out some good in Anakin. It hadn't been an easy thing, this business of finding a woman who possessed those qualities yet whom Palpatine would still find acceptable.

Padme Naberrie.

She is… well, he hopes he's picked well.

"I wasn't in favor of this, Anakin," he comments dryly. "Just realistic about it. Palpatine was going to do it—I thought it best to have some say in the matter."

That at least earns him a mischievous smile. "Some say? Obi-Wan, we hacked into Palpatine's system. Is that what you call 'having your say' now?"

If that's the only way he can get it, perhaps. "I got my choice, didn't I?" he answers, shrugging and dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

"Yeah," Anakin admits. The way he shakes his head disbelievingly, like after all these years he still can't believe Obi-Wan's propensity for doing things like this—it's almost amusing. "You're not going to make me regret letting you, are you?"

Which, of course, is Anakin's way of asking if Obi-Wan made his choice based on what would be best for the rebellion. The rebellion that's trying to overthrow Emperor Palpatine. Anakin's father. The rebellion that is trying to overthrow a regime that will someday be _Anakin's_.

Honestly, some days Obi-Wan is more than a little insulted by the fact that Anakin doesn't seem to think the rebellion enough of a threat to really bother to find out exactly _what _Obi-Wan is doing. Yes, Anakin wants his father dead as much as the next person, but he's got to know that he's taking a very large risk in assuming that if Palpatine falls, his son will be able to hold onto power. It's simply another situation where Anakin is letting Obi-Wan chase after his own goals since, for the time being, they correspond with what Anakin wants. But Obi-Wan does have to wonder, what happens when they stop corresponding? It's an unspoken rule that Obi-Wan won't try to harm Anakin, even if he'll muck up every single one of Palpatine's doings. It's like a game for Anakin, trying to figure out what Obi-Wan is going to destroy next, just so long as it's never _his _plansthat Obi-Wan is trying to destroy.

But if that day comes, what then?

And Anakin _has _to know that eventually their goals won't line up.

Obi-Wan wants democracy. And Anakin wants to rule.

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin prompts, not having gotten an answer to his question.

Right, yes. Will he make Anakin regret letting him choose Padme? "Do you regret associating with _me_?"

Anakin laughs. "Some days?" Obi-Wan doesn't smile, though, and Anakin's humor quickly fades. "Fine. No, I don't."

"Then you'll probably find her tolerable."

"Well, it's not like I didn't figure that you'd chose someone who agreed with you. I let you do it anyway. Figured that, if you liked her, she probably wouldn't be an idiot who followed my father's every whim."

Ah, yes, there is that willingness to let Obi-Wan do what he wants when it fits Anakin's agenda. Splendid… and slightly worrying, because Obi-Wan really doesn't want to be so closely aligned with Anakin's agenda.

"C'mon, Obi-Wan, tell me about her."

He's like a child, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands propped under his chin, half smearing the smile he's wearing. There's such an energy about him, crawling just under his skin, and Obi-Wan is reminded of that little nine year old boy he was charged with caring for. The one who would crawl into his lap for a story. And he's asking for a story again now. Only, this one is real.

"I know about as much as you do, Anakin. I was only in her company about ten minutes more than you were."

"Don't lie, Obi-Wan: ten minutes might give another person nothing, but you can probably give me a full character analysis."

Yes, regrettably that _is_ a talent of his, learned by necessity. After the fall of the Jedi, it became of utmost importance to be able to read a person's intentions. Will that man hit you? Is he kind? What sort of thing should you say to convince him you're not doing anything forbidden when, in fact, you are? And when/if you're caught, what will best assuage his anger?

Oh, yes, he's _very_ good at reading people.

Now the question becomes, does he want to keep holding out until Anakin makes his request an order? The conversation will certainly become much less pleasant if he does, and while he could probably get away without answering, it means he'll get away with less in the coming days. The system he and Anakin have—it's always like that. If you take, you better be ready to give: Anakin will give orders and revoke privileges if Obi-Wan irritates him, but Obi-Wan can make himself very unpleasant company while still being quite technically polite… and Obi-Wan is about the only company Anakin trusts and spends time with, which puts the voluntary attention and affection that Obi-Wan gives him at a premium. They balance each other that way… but if the situation were to collapse, there is no doubt who could play the final trump card.

Obi-Wan would not be the victor.

"She's clever," he says slowly, because he doesn't much favor a few days of not visiting Satine for something as trivial as this. "Opinionated. Doesn't like you."

Anakin rolls his eyes and tosses Obi-Wan one of the muja fruits resting in a bowl by his plate. "Only you would choose me a wife who doesn't like me."

"If I picked one who liked you, she'd like Palpatine too."

The implications of that don't seem entirely pleasing to Anakin: his jaw clenches, and he bites into his own fruit a little more vigorously than necessary. "_You_ like me," he points out once he's swallowed.

"I gave you baths. I tolerated your temper tantrums. I helped you with training and schoolwork. You climbed into my bed when you had nightmares. And there was that one horrid time when you fell down that hill into the stream and I had to drag you out, and I caught that terrible head cold... At this point, I have invested far too much in you to dislike you."

_And you saved me, _he doesn't say.

Anakin won't make him say that, either. He never does. Not _ever_.

But they both know.

The tension at the corners of Anakin's eyes eases, and he laughs a little, chewing thoughtfully while he absently jostles the fruit held in his fingers. "So, opinionated and doesn't like me? You did this on purpose."

"I've already told you that. You need a hobby. It might as well be a worthy one."

"A hobby? As if preparing to eventually rule the Empire isn't enough?" He stops then, grasping the fruit tightly in his fist. Silence. Cold silence. Obi-Wan feels himself stiffen in time with Anakin. "Oh, I see," Anakin says finally, eyes opening a little wider before narrowing in anger. "You're trying to make me get a _different_ hobby."

"Ideally." Obi-Wan takes a bite of his own fruit, eyeing Anakin over the top of it. He doesn't like the steadily cooling manner that he sees: Anakin in an icy mood is never a good thing. A temper might be better, because all the ice really means is that there's fire bottled up, boiling, just beneath. He'd rather just have the fire out in the open.

"And pay less attention to the things you do?"

"I'm not doing anything."

They both know he's lying, but Anakin lets him, because when he gets tired of not knowing exactly what Obi-Wan is up to, he'll try to catch him at it. Naturally, Obi-Wan will attempt to evade him. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but Anakin lets him do it, long after Palpatine would have had him shot like so many other Jedi already have been.

But tonight, Anakin doesn't seem to much want to play at this game. That's not entirely surprising: he's mercurial in his moods, especially when he hasn't gotten what he wants… and he does want Obi-Wan's loyalty. Perhaps the idea that Obi-Wan would take advantage of his marriage as a means of diversion has upset him? Probably not—that's rather expected. More likely it's the fact that it's fairly obvious Obi-Wan is doing something Anakin won't like—if it were only something Palpatine wouldn't like, Obi-Wan does have to concede that he wouldn't be working so hard to hide it.

"You have plans tonight?" Anakin asks, setting the fruit aside. His gaze has narrowed dangerously, and all sense of play has vanished.

Oh, this won't be good. "Nothing particular." _Don't ask further. Don't ask_. _Don't guess._

"Oh? So you weren't planning to go see Satine?"

Ah, well, so much for that. He's got a fairly solid hunch that he won't be going to see her _now_. "It might have been on my list."

Anakin just nods. "And now it's not."

"Anakin-"

"And now. It's not."

He would like very much to swear, but what sort of example would that set for Anakin when he's so adamant that Anakin shouldn't do it? But sometimes, it's tiring to be a good example, especially when he seems to have so little effect—when Anakin is still cruel like this. And Obi-Wan can't change it.

Life—it could have been so different. He could have been a Jedi. Both him and Anakin. And it wouldn't have been like this. They could have been partners in the true sense. A team.

"This, I think—this tendency to be slightly unreasonable—is why all the intelligent women don't like you, Anakin."

Yes, wrong thing to say. He ought to know by now when to stop pushing, but Anakin—he has a way of getting under Obi-Wan's skin. Or, rather, Anakin's position of power does. It's not that Obi-Wan has a problem with authority, but the way Anakin ended up in authority over him—it's not quite a situation that's conducive to a happy acceptance.

And Obi-Wan's never been much for rolling over and giving up anyway.

"Guess we'll both be sleeping alone tonight then," Anakin answers rather nastily. Shooting Obi-Wan something that's halfway between a glance and a glare, he tosses his fruit onto the dish that holds the remains of his half-finished meal. That's petty. Obi-Wan was going to eat the rest of that, and Anakin knows it. Of _course_ he does. That's _why _he did it—Obi-Wan's going to be getting supper in the kitchens tonight like all the other former Jedi rather than getting food meant for the ruling family.

Reason would dictate that it's time to leave now before this situation escalates.

Raising both his eyebrows in what Anakin could never really prove was a rebuke—so much easier to do things like that non-verbally, where it won't be on record—he heads for the door. "I'll leave you to whatever has you so irritated," he tells Anakin, palming open the door.

"You know exactly what has me irritated."

Oh? Does he? Does he ever _really _know just what gets Anakin in these moods? "Anakin, it's a bit late to start doubting me now, don't you think? If I wanted to harm you, I could do it in far more clever ways than suggesting a wife who doesn't like you, especially when you _knew _from the beginning that she doesn't like you."

Anakin leans forward on the couch, resting his hands on his knees, staring intently at Obi-Wan. There's focus in his manner now, and Obi-Wan knows very well that Anakin is trying to read his intentions, with methods both visual and _deeper_… and, yes, there is that touch of the Force, poking at his shields.

It's foolish of Anakin to think he didn't reinforce those shields before this conversation reached even its early stages.

"Doesn't mean you wouldn't try to distract me from whatever it is that you're doing," Anakin says finally, letting the touch slip away from Obi-Wan's mind as he apparently realizes he's not going to find any carelessly unprotected thoughts. "And you're doing _something_. You always are."

That at least, is fairly true. And while Anakin may be willing to let it go for now, the day Obi-Wan gets caught will be the day Anakin gets angry. In some ways, Obi-Wan can't quite blame him: it won't be a pleasant experience for Anakin to explain to Palpatine how he had no concept of what Obi-Wan was doing, destroying, planning… Palpatine will probably advocate having him killed just to punish Anakin for not knowing what was happening right in front of him, and a situation like that… it will _greatly _displease Anakin.

Ideally, he won't be displeased enough to forgo trying find a way to dissuade Palpatine, but, if that's not the case, some things are undeniably worth dying for.

Obi-Wan picked his cause a long time ago.

"If, theoretically, there were things that I do which I'd rather you didn't notice, that still provides you with little reason to just now begin doubting my motives. Again, theoretically, if I am doing these things you accuse me of, I have been doing them for years. Why use marriage as a distraction now?"

Anakin takes that as the rebuke it is, and he does have the good grace to at least look a little contrite. Not too contrite, however—probably because he still doesn't entirely believe that, on some level, suggesting Senator Amidala wasn't a well-played ploy of Obi-Wan's to further some sort of ulterior motive.

And he's not entirely wrong. He's just wrong in what he thinks Obi-Wan is trying to accomplish. This, at least, is not a bid to distract Anakin. This, Obi-Wan thinks as he crosses his arms, staring Anakin down, is a bid to force Anakin to spend time with someone else who holds views similar to Obi-Wan. This is an attempt to help Anakin see some of the things that need to change—to recognize those things he won't listen to Obi-Wan about.

"Obi-Wan—"

"Goodnight," he says, cutting Anakin off.

Anakin's lips purse—a good indication that he's frustrated with how this is going. His anger has faded, however, and that, at least, is a blessing. Pity that Obi-Wan is feeling more annoyed than before. If Anakin hadn't thrown this very pointless fit of temper, Obi-Wan could be spending the evening with his wife—not that he'll get to now, even if Anakin _does _realize just how readily he jumped to conclusions. No, Anakin will not be so blunt as to take that back. He'll apologize in other ways—ways that don't undermine his authority.

There are times when Obi-Wan very much wishes he had possessed the authority to take Anakin over his knee when the boy had been younger. It might have forestalled some of these problems before they started.

Regrettably, he never had any true disciplinary power at all, at least beyond what Shmi was able to give him, and now that she is gone, he's left only with what Anakin tolerates.

That is, very little. Mere suggestions only.

Ah, yes, suggestions. And that reminds him: "I told your wife you'd be calling on her for breakfast."

Anakin's brows shoot straight for his hairline; his alarm is almost comical. "You can't be—"

"I _am_ serious. She's your wife. You at least need to _speak_ to her before you sleep with her."

That deflates him to some degree. "Fine," he mutters, stringing his fingers through his hair roughly enough that a few strands part company with his scalp.

"I find her quite charming."

"Then you're more than welcome to help yourself."

"That was tasteless, Anakin."

He shrugs unapologetically. "I guess it was."

Help yourself. Goodness, he tried to teach Anakin better than this… but the problem remains: Anakin doesn't seem to see the details of the finer issues of this nature. He meant what he said: he sees no reason why, beyond social protocol—which he, for the most part, disregards—it isn't perfectly reasonable to tell Obi-Wan he can sleep with Padme if he'd like. And that—it's the concept behind that which worries Obi-Wan. Anakin views people as expendable until he becomes attached to them. Padme, at this point, means nothing to him.

And Force help him, Obi-Wan hopes he hasn't underestimated her capacity to teach Anakin—better than he himself has been able to—that people can't be thrown about like that.

"Goodnight, Anakin," he says, shutting the door behind him and effectively ending the conversation before it plunges back into the irritation Anakin is apparently experiencing tonight. Though, Obi-Wan is not so surprised about that—Anakin has always been remarkably touchy at the idea of Obi-Wan betraying him. It's the converse of his proclivity to view people as dispensable: once he begins caring for someone, they become utterly _indispensible, _and he grows very concentrated on ensuring he won't lose them, whether by their own doing or someone else's.

The walk to the kitchen does at least help him clear his head. As irritated as he is that he won't get to see his wife tonight, he doesn't need to aggravate the situation. Satine will understand. She always does.

He's not really surprised to find there's a meal waiting for him in the kitchen when he gets there. It's not as good as he might have gotten if he'd had the rest of Anakin's dinner as he usually does, Anakin being in the habit of ordering extra for that exact reason, but it's hot, and he can bet it's better than the other Jedi received tonight. Apparently, Anakin called to let them know he was coming. An apology, then—this would be one of the "other ways" of apologizing in place of actually swallowing his pride and acknowledging the occurrence of a mistake.

Thanking the cook, Obi-Wan sits down at the edge of the room—empty now, as it's fairly late, and the other Jedi will have no doubt eaten already—and proceeds to pick his dinner apart. The food is passable—again, probably because Anakin made sure it would be—and he's reminded vaguely of the refectory at the Jedi Temple. Lunches with friends, dinners with Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon.

Force, things could have been _so _different.

He doesn't think much after that—just eats. It's easier that way. Hurts less. It's slightly mind-numbing, this not-thinking, but he does it sufficiently, and a couple of minutes later, he finds that at some point he's gotten full. Well, then. That's enough for tonight.

Leaving his plate for the cleaning droids, he exits the kitchen and heads back to quarters for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

He shouldn't have been so short with Obi-Wan. The fact is obvious—the sort of thing that clings to Anakin, nagging—always nagging—until he can't ignore it, and, Force, he certainly does wish he could. A conscience, Obi-Wan would call it. And, anyway, Obi-Wan was right: if he'd wanted to betray Anakin, he's smart enough to do it in a way that's less obvious than what Anakin accused him of.

Of _course_ Obi-Wan has a reason he picked Padme Naberrie. He always has a reason. But it was foolish to think it was _entirely _because Obi-Wan wanted him occupied and distracted. That's probably just a convenient benefit, and there is, no doubt, a better reason, and one that, in Obi-Wan's mind, will probably aid Anakin. Anakin may disagree—of _course _he disagrees—but he can still recognize that it was unfair of him to accuse Obi-Wan of stooping so low as to suggest he marry someone who would be detrimental to him. Obi-Wan wouldn't do that. He's not that cruel, and suggesting otherwise was, in retrospect, a fairly serious error and more than a little unkind.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Anakin tugs a hand through his hair and sighs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And telling Obi-Wan he couldn't see his wife—that was… it was petty. Obi-Wan needs to see his wife—it relaxes him, and Force knows he needs it. No, it was a spiteful decision—a kneejerk one. Obi-Wan had gotten him angry—or he'd gotten _himself_ angry with doubts about Obi-Wan's motives that never really had any basis—and he'd just _said _it, because he knew Obi-Wan would hate it.

And he didn't let him eat dinner either.

Petty.

He should have learned to control his temper better than this. He knows it. He _does_.

Sighing again, Anakin reaches over for his comlink on the side table and calls down to the kitchens. They'll be closed by now, and they never really bother to feed the Jedi well anyway—without his intervention anything Obi-Wan will get at this point wouldn't really be worth eating. And it would be Anakin's fault.

He glances at the half-full plate of food on the table. Stupid. He'd ordered extra for Obi-Wan anyway—he always does—and it had been completely childish not to let him eat it.

Whatever. He'll make it up to him. Maybe get Satine the whole day off work sometime soon so that Obi-Wan can spend it with her. Or something. He'll find _something_ better than a call down to the kitchens that he can use to apologize.

In the meantime, he's got other things to worry about.

Mainly, his new wife.

He's _married_.

Setting his comlink aside, Anakin pushes himself up off the couch and pads over to his desk, calling for a cleaning droid to come get the mess from dinner before he settles himself into his chair and reaches for a holofile. A couple of pokes to the right buttons pull up the information he was looking for.

The information he hacked into. In other words, the _real_ information about Padme Naberrie Amidala, or whatever her name is. Not the information Palpatine saw—the creative piece of fiction that Obi-Wan wrote.

Padme Naberrie. Or Amidala. Or something. Apparently Amidala is a royal name, back from when she was queen. Naberrie is her family name. Parents. One sister. A couple of nieces. From Naboo. There's a lot more there, and it gets more in-depth as he goes—exact records of how she's voted in the Senate, how many tries it took her to get her speeder license, people she's known to associate with—but the more he looks at it, the more the information just seems… like words in a file. Nothing more. Her voting record—it's clearly not in favor of the Empire, but she's not a radical either. Not the kind that shoots people, at least. And he wouldn't really say her views against the Empire are _unusual—_lots of people hold them. It's just that most people aren't as bold as she is—and they take pains to keep their views to themselves. And her associates—many of them are like her. Not pleased with the Empire. Again, nothing particularly odd there. She's the sort of person who, eventually, Palpatine would probably have silenced if she kept being vocal. There are a good many people like that.

But Obi-Wan must have seen something. Gritting his teeth, Anakin shoves his elbows down onto the armrests of his chair. He will not be annoyed that he can't figure what Obi-Wan saw. He _won't_.

She's pretty, at least. And smart. He's got her standard test scores from Naboo. She's _really_ smart, apparently. He did tell Obi-Wan he didn't want someone idiotic. Nice to see that he listened. About the only thing Obi-Wan listens to, he thinks, huffing out a short breath and utterly failing to suppress the nagging voice in his head that points out how he could have just done this research himself. But, no, he hadn't wanted to get married at all, and anyway, he trusts Obi-Wan. Tonight's outburst was just an irrational slip. He knows better. Obi-Wan has taken care of him since he was nine, and he's not going to stop now, even if he disagrees with just about everything Anakin's slated to become.

Oh. _Oh_.

_That _is how Obi-Wan probably chose Padme Amidala.

Gripping his fingers down into the armrests, Anakin bends back forward, studying the file with new purpose. Oh, it's nothing blatant, but, yes, it's there—all the indicators he could want. Clever of Obi-Wan-he must have picked someone he thought would aid him in his never-ending quest to show Anakin the failings of dictatorship, the morality of the Jedi, and the virtue of democracy. That again. Yes.

Tossing the datapad aside, Anakin lowers his head to the desk. He asked for this. He did. He told Obi-Wan to help him out, because he just didn't care, and he hacked Palpatine's files, and let Obi-Wan have full access. Of _course_ he got someone who's going to aid Obi-Wan's cause. And why should he be surprised? In Obi-Wan's mind, that's what's best for Anakin.

And now doesn't he just look entirely stupid for his earlier accusations? Force, he ought to bang his head against the desk, try to beat out some of that sheer idiocy. Or something. So _stupid. _Really, he should have known better than to think that Obi-Wan picked this girl to try to cause him harm. He's trying to help him. He's _always _trying to help him, even if what Obi-Wan considers help is what Anakin calls a major annoyance.

_So _annoying. He closes his eyes thinking about it, trying not to sigh—failing, of course—and wondering just how in the world he's going to survive when Obi-Wan has gained an ally. One he has to sleep with too.

Clearly, this situation is spiraling off into complication.

He's—he'll do something—something… and he'll just open his eyes to do it…

When he wakes up the next morning, head still down on his desk, and an _unbelievable_ kink in his neck, he's no closer to solving any of his problems. Actually, it seems pretty clear that he has more problems than when he started: Nine Corellian Hells, but his back _hurts_. His neck doesn't feel all that great either, and his face—compressed meat probably looks better than he does after being plastered to the desk all night. Worst of all, he's supposed to have breakfast with his wife. He could just refuse, of course, but he was pretty cruel to Obi-Wan last night, and Obi-Wan _wants _him to do this. Kriffing requests.

No, he'll go, because it's not like he needs _another _thing to apologize to Obi-Wan about.

After a short internal debate about what he ought to wear—what _does_ one usually wear in a situation like this?—he dons a casual gray tunic and some black pants. He's not dressing up for this meeting. They're married. She had better get used to his lack of formality, because he has neither the time nor the inclination to learn how to tiptoe around her.

Mind made up, he trudges out of his room, smoothing his mussed hair down as he tries to mentally prepare himself for what he's sure will be a rather awkward encounter—and the beginning, at least, _is_.

She answers the door when he knocks, and as soon as the barrier between them zips open, he's left staring at her… and she doesn't look particularly pleased to see him. Quite the opposite actually: crossed arms and etched lines on someone's forehead do not, in his experience, indicate sincere welcome—not that it's ever really mattered. People give him what he wants regardless of whether they favor having him in their presence. Most people don't, actually, since close proximity means there's less distance between them and whatever displeasure they may incur from him.

But this woman—she doesn't look intimidated, not by any means. She actually looks more like she's caught the scent of something undesirable. And whatever view she's getting—that doesn't seem to be pleasing her too much either, which is rather problematic, considering she's staring at _him_.

"Nice of you to come," she says icily.

Right. Funny how the sound of that really seems to skate more along the lines of, "Oh, hello. How unfortunate to see you this morning: I was not-so-secretly hoping that you would have somehow suffered a painful death before we met." This discrepancy between tone and words—it's the kind of thing Obi-Wan does when he's insuring that he's _technically _polite while still letting Anakin know that he is Very Displeased. Lovely. Exactly what he needed this morning—because it's not like he'll get the _exact same thing_ from Obi-Wan later on today.

"Certainly," he answers, giving her a slight bow, which is about as much solicitousness as he can manage at this point. Probably he shouldn't spend the entirety of the motion considering all the very unpleasant things he can do to Obi-Wan to pay him back for this inconvenient new situation, but, well, to do otherwise at this point would take a great effort that he frankly doesn't want to make. He'll deal with the inconvenience in front of him before creates another.

Because, clearly, this situation _is_ going to be quite inconvenient. He doesn't have much experience with disobedient people that he can't kill; usually, if the person he's talking to is still alive, they're unquestionably doing what he wants. But this woman—he can't kill her, and he can't really treat her like Obi-Wan, because her social standing is quite obviously different. No… he'll have to think of something else.

Regrettably, at the moment, a solution isn't exactly springing to mind.

"Come in," she says finally, stiffly stepping back from the door. Her dress rustles with the movement, and for the briefest of moments, he's tempted to reach out and touch it, just to see how it feels. Like his mother's clothes, maybe? He used to cling to her skirts sometimes, back when he was very small…

But, no, his mother would never wear something like this. She was far more conservative, always keeping her clothes as simple as she could while still insuring that they befitted her station—or, rather, that Palpatine considered them to befit her station. This girl, though—her dress is a couple of different shades of blue, and the skirt of it, which is of a lighter shade, swishes around her legs as she moves. Actually, the only part that's really dark is a sort of vest-like thing with an odd shaped piece of decoration stretching from her stomach up to her bosom. And her sleeves—they look kind of puffy, soft too, but with little metal loops around her upper arms. Strange. But… she looks good. Did she look like this when they got married? Hard to tell—he wasn't really bothering with anything beyond how irritated he was to have to get married in the first place. But, now, really _looking _at her, it's hard to deny that she's very attractive.

More importantly, he can't quite ignore the spark of interest he feels somewhere down inside his gut.

Perhaps having to sleep with her won't be quite so unpleasant, just as long as she doesn't try to talk.

"You… already called for breakfast," he notes as they head further into her quarters, stopping at the large dinning table. They could eat in the smaller breakfast nook, but given the fact that she chose where they'd eat _and _that she's set their places on opposite ends of the table, it's entirely clear that she wants to be as far away from him as possible. Plus, she already called for breakfast—no doubt she's telling him she couldn't care less about his preferences.

"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding very sorry at all. "If you'd like something else, you're welcome to call down for it."

He feels his lips thin. "This will be fine."

It's fleeting, but he doesn't miss how satisfaction tugs at the muscles of her face, drawing them up into something smug for less than a moment before she's again wearing that blank, entirely neutral expression. "Well then," she says, sweeping her hand in the direction of the table. "Should we eat?"

You know what? No. He's not letting her do this. He will not be manipulated this easily, and maybe it's true that he's used to getting what he wants by force, but he's also very good at subtly getting his way. Obi-Wan has taught him that skill, both by modeling it and by forcing Anakin to use it—and he'll be damned if he lets that training go to waste now.

"Yes, let's," he agrees, plastering the biggest, fakest smile that he can possibly manage onto his face as he saunters to the end of the table, retrieves his plate, and returns to her end, settling himself in the chair directly next to hers.

She frowns. Excellent.

"This looks quite good," he lies, spooning some fruit onto his plate. He doesn't mind fruit, but he'd like something more substantial for breakfast. She can't possibly have known that, can she have? No, he's over-reacting: she doesn't know enough about him to plan even the menu so as to annoy him.

"I'm glad you think so."

Do her cheeks hurt from holding her face so stiffly for so long? "I do."

"Good."

Right… and what now? He spears a piece of melon and pops it into his mouth, just to stall for time. She might be perfectly content to sit here in silence, but _he's_ certainly not. It's a profound waste of his time, and he's never much liked silence anyway.

"So… what exactly _is _your last name?"

Her hand stills, fork halfway to her mouth; she lowers it slowly back down to her plate, studying him out of the corner of her eye. "Didn't you think to ask before you married me?"

He just shrugs. "No. I think we both know I didn't choose this."

She follows up a particularly acidic sigh with a pause in which she raises the fork again and takes a bite. When she finishes chewing, she mutters sharply, "As flattered as I am that our esteemed Emperor saw me as a way to prove his remaining non-existent loyalty to his home planet of Naboo, I would have at least thought you would have been briefed on my _name_."

"Why?"

She doesn't answer. And, yes, when he stops and thinks about it, that was an undeniably bad answer. He should probably care about how cold that was… but, honestly, _why_? She doesn't mean anything to him. Is he really expected to care?

Surprisingly, though, she just nods after a minute or so. "You know, you're right. I'm just here to give you an heir and to possibly stand beside you at political functions and look nice. You wouldn't be capable of sustaining anything more anyway."

"Pardon?"

Stabbing a piece of fruit a bit harder than she really needs to, she ignores the scrape of her fork against her plate and stares up at him from under dark eyelashes. "In order to have any sort of relationship, you have to be capable of looking outside of yourself."

"Which I _am_ capable of doing."

"Oh?" One eyebrow arches. "And of the people you are close to, which of those relationships gives both parties equal rights to disagree?"

"I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"What exactly is Obi-Wan's position here?"

"Obi-Wan?"

"Kenobi, yes."

"I know whom you're referring to," he breathes out, huffing indignantly. "It's not like it's a common name, and, despite what you clearly think, I do know a good deal about Obi-Wan. I was just surprised by the question."

Has anyone ever cut himself on the sharpness of that look she's shooting him? It seems entirely in the realm of possibility. "Oh? Afraid of the answer? Whatever it is, don't take it too hard—he apparently still has hope that there's good in you, though I have to wonder how much of that is desperation to make things seem less bleak than they actually are."

Obi-Wan. Force, she couldn't have asked for a more complicated answer. "Obi-Wan has taken care of me since I was nine. Tutored me, helped me with lightsaber combat, stopped me from stealing speeders from the hangar, tried to instill proper etiquette, for the most part failed to instill proper etiquette…"

Her eyes widen slightly, and she pushes a piece of fruit to the side of her plate. "I'm surprised by that. Surprised that Palpatine would allow someone who so clearly doesn't ascribe to his philosophy to have such influence over you."

Yes, and that, at least, _is _humorous. Though, it's less funny in reality, because he's at a loss for how to answer that question not phrased as a question. Would the truth really be such a terrible method? They are _married_, after all.

"Palpatine let me have Obi-Wan because he thought it would give me a taste of power. Controlling someone else's life—it's a childhood activity befitting of a Sith, yes? His motives were not altruistic in the least."

But that, Anakin mentally adds, is and always has been Palpatine's weakness: he gives almost no credit to the light side of the Force... and Anakin does. Certainly he does not use the light side exclusively or even predominantly, but he does recognize that it has its uses—uses like feeling Obi-Wan in his head that first time.

"And why did you care enough to want him in the first place?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in what looks suspiciously like disgust.

Rather than immediately answering her question, it's easier to simply twirl his fork in his fingers, ignoring her inquiring glare at his manners. Admittedly, one does not usually twirl the silverware when there is a piece of melon still sticking from the prongs, but he is Anakin Skywalker, heir to the Empire, and he can do as he pleases. "His mind—it felt warm. You don't know the Force, so I can't really explain it to you. But it was luminescent… beautiful. The Force danced around him, and I—I wanted to see more of it."

Which is the truth. But, more than that, he had absolutely loathed seeing that kind of play in the Force sliced and cut by the kind of abuse Obi-Wan had been enduring. Palpatine had never understood that. He hadn't recognized what Obi-Wan had in the Force in anything beyond terms of power, and so he couldn't imagine that Anakin was drawn by anything else but the desire to control that part of Obi-Wan.

Eleven years later, Anakin does have to admit that sometimes he enjoys knowing he controls power like that, but Obi-Wan has still, much to Palpatine's chagrin, become his only real friend, and, doubtless, a sort of older brother who cares for a younger sibling. At least, he'd always acted like he had that sort of duty—if he were here at the moment, he'd almost certainly be scolding about bad table manners. Or perhaps that's more like a father. The idea of it nearly makes Anakin want to allow the small smile that's tugging at his lips. All right, yes, Obi-Wan is a father as much as he can be, and more than Palpatine ever could be. The power struggles they engage in are sometimes unbelievable in proportions, but if he loves anyone, it could only be Obi-Wan. And he does love him. His mother is dead: Obi-Wan is the only family he has left.

Oddly, Padme's face has eased at that description. What? Had she thought him totally incapable of recognizing beauty? The Force is beauty, and he can credit both sides of it with that. Well, only the light, really. The dark side is not beautiful.

But it is _powerful_.

"I'm still surprised that Palpatine allowed it," she continues, though less hostility this time, "given Obi-Wan's outlook. I can't imagine he agrees with Palpatine on much of anything."

"Saying he doesn't ascribe to Palpatine's philosophy would be putting it mildly."

"Oh?"

And that—it requires an answer, doesn't it? She did ask what exactly Obi-Wan's position is… But he always is, frankly, hesitant to answer something like that. What Obi-Wan _technically _is and what he _really _is are two very different things. But if he doesn't tell her, she'll ask Obi-Wan, and that—it's not… Obi-Wan will answer like he always does, stoically, with good grace, but Anakin knows how much he hates saying it.

No, let this woman rage at him—because she will—but he will not make Obi-Wan answer her questions, no matter how well meaning she might be.

"He's a former Jedi."

Clearly, she _does _know exactly what that means.

A look of disgust twists her face, jerking the muscles back tight; he simply looks away. It's not because the expression pulls at his conscience—he's had plenty of time to feel guilty over some of the things that have happened to Obi-Wan—but because if he keeps staring, he won't be able to retain what little control he has left. She doesn't understand. She _thinks_ she does, and she condemns him based on that.

Arrogant, selfish, little-

"He's a slave." Whatever softening she'd done at hearing his appreciation of the Force—it's gone now. Utterly vanished.

"It doesn't mean I don't care about him. I do. Very much."

"But he still _has _to obey you, doesn't he? You could kill him if you wanted to. You could do anything to him, and he couldn't stop you."

"I _wouldn't_." Never. Not for anything. He's not going to lose anyone else that he loves. Not after what happened with his mother.

"And he has, what, your word to guarantee that?" With a furious screech of metal, she shoves her chair back from the table, throwing herself to her feet in a huff of indignation and flowing skirts. "What was his crime? Being a Jedi? He couldn't have been very old when the Order fell."

Anakin pushes his own chair back from the table, but he doesn't rise. Not yet. "Fifteen."

"He was barely more than a _child_."

"If makes you feel better, I've been told Palpatine took the children to train for his own purposes. Obi-Wan missed the cutoff by two years. And he's lucky for that. At least he still gets to _think_ the way he wants, even if he can't act on it."

"And now? You said he started taking care of you when you were nine. But you're not nine years old anymore! You don't need to be taken care of anymore. I'm surprised you haven't sent him off with the rest of the Jedi. "

Apparently he shouldn't tell her about last night, given that the barracks—with the other Jedi, or at least the few who remain under Palpatine's direct watch—is exactly where Anakin is sure Obi-Wan slept. He does have to utter a bit of a mental apology for that. The barracks are crowed and dirty, and… he'll consider that later. "He usually stays with me… or outside the palace. My apartments have a spare room."

"How considerate," she mutters, crossing her arms and looking away. Her grip is so strained that the threads of the fabric thin and stretch under her nails.

"If Obi-Wan doesn't hate me for it, I don't see why _you_ should."

Apparently that's the wrong thing to say, because she doesn't answer: rather, she turns on her heel, hands fisted tightly in the fabric of her dress as she marches to the door of the room, feet striking the floor hard enough to echo the noise off the walls. And, yet, it's not a temper tantrum—she's controlled, even now.

And the smallest bit of him is impressed by that. But the larger part of him? Is mulling over what to do when walked out on like that. It doesn't happen much, and the people who have done it aren't around to give their perspective.

Perhaps pointing that out will have some effect.

"Exactly what do you think gives you the right to walk out on me?" he snaps, shoving his chair back and stomping after her.

He clears the entrance to the kitchen just a few seconds after she does. Infuriatingly enough, she doesn't acknowledge that—doesn't even have the curiosity to seem surprised. It's like she _expected _that he would come after her.

His fingers begin to itch. How he would just love to wrap his hands around something and break—

"What gives you the right to order me to stay?" she counters tersely, circling around to the other side of the island in the middle of the room. She moves fluidly, almost unconcerned, but her eyes dart more quickly, with sharper movements… and as far as he can tell, they're flickering in the direction of the knives.

She wouldn't really try that, would she?

_Would _she?

"I'm told you served as a Senator. I'm fairly sure you would have some idea of who I am politically?" He pauses then, splaying his hands out on the counter and leaning forward, watching her. The movement isn't meant to be aggressive—fine, maybe _somewhat_—but her eyes dart toward the knives again.

Seems those are going to have to get taken out of the kitchen.

"Or maybe you don't," he adds, cocking his head lightly. "The Senate is a joke. Everyone knows that. A lawmaking body in name only. They do what Palpatine tells them."

For the most part, that's entirely true. But there are always a few senators who don't conform. She's one of them. But, oh, it's so good to see the effect his words have on her—after she walked out on him, this is that something he's needed.

More than anything else he's said so far, those words seem to rile her: red blooms on her cheeks, and, in a rush of temper, she jerks forward, pushing her hands against the counter as well and leaning forward over it until their faces are only a few feet apart. It's the closest they've been so far.

And she looks as though she'd like to use the proximity to _murder _him.

Without a doubt, he should recognize that and end the situation here. Obi-Wan would tell him to act his age and exercise a bit of maturity. But, oh, where is the use in that? That rush he gets when he tempts fate just that _little bit more_—it's so much better; he always just has to keep pushing, just to prove he _can_. To do so now simply feels natural, and so he leans back away from the counter, walks stiffly around to the other side, and advances on her.

She has the poise not to look cornered. Still, there's no denying that's exactly what she is when he slips toward her, forcing her retreat, back, back, _back_ until she bumps into the counter against the wall. The one with the knives. Which he did on purpose. Because he's going to let her try. Best to show her now that it won't work.

"There are those of us in the Senate who still fight for what's right," she seethes.

"Yes, and you usually end up _dead_. You'd do best to admit it: if you try to buck the Empire's rule in life, you'll submit in death."

"No. I'll die _free_."

"But you'll still be _dead_, Senator. What good does your freedom do you then?"

Sneering, he leans in a little closer, perversely enjoying the rage in her eyes. She _is _beautiful, and she hates him, but what would it be like if she didn't? In another life, he might have found something he can't see here. Acceptance, maybe. Because he can't deny she interests him, and, in his experience, if someone interests him, he or she is at least worth _something_. "What does it gain for you?" he asks again.

Her eyes narrow in response. "Something you would never know, because you've never had it. You—_you _have been a slave to the Empire all your life."

Right. Well. And that's just _enough_ of that. The horrible clenching in his gut makes _that _perfectly clear, thank you.

He was never a slave. His mother—_she _was a slave, and he's not like that. Not at all. But Padme-she can't _know _that, but damn her for _not _knowing, for saying it anyway, for not knowing when she _should _have known, even if she _couldn't _have known, and… he _hates _her, _hates_ her, hates himself sometimes, hates her…

And Force help him, he is also entirely drawn in by whatever is going on behind those eyes.

"I am no one's slave."

She just laughs.

"I'm not," he seethes, voice dropping in pitch as he leans in just a little bit more, leaving scarcely half a foot of distance. "I'm the one who _makes_ the rules."

Surprisingly, her small hand darts up, planting in the middle of his chest, holding him back. He could, of course, overpower her, but there's little point in that. He has no need to do that. Not yet. Those knives are still in their holders.

"I make _your _rules now," he continues, liking the play of emotions over her face. Anger. Insult. Worry. Loathing. "How do you like _that_?"

She doesn't answer.

"I will tear down everything you fought for the in the Senate. Or maybe I won't have to. Maybe the Emperor will finish that before I kill him."

"You'd kill your own-?" She leaves the word hanging, so like her hand on his chest, which is no longer exerting any pressure. Just limply resting.

She thought otherwise? So foolish of her-he hates Palpatine as much as the next person. Probably more. "Of course. And if he's not done destroying those things you hold so dear, I'll finish the job. Or maybe I'll kill him early, just to have the pleasure of doing it myself."

_Snap_. Her control breaks. So obvious when it does. Shoving him—and he lets her—she rolls to the side, small, strong body whipping around, twisting, and her fingers close around one of the knives, before she snaps back around and plunges it toward him.

Having expected it, he easily captures her wrist in his grip.

He is interested to note, however, that she was aiming for his shoulder. Not to kill. Interesting. What was her plan? Wound him and run? It doesn't seem like her. More than likely, she didn't have a plan. She was fueled by nothing more than emotion and a devotion to a set of ideals… but devotion or not, she is, obviously, not capable of cold-blooded murder. Not like this. Not when it's not a battle—the kind where both sides know they're being shot at. She won't pick him off with a knife that she doesn't think he sees coming.

Good to know.

"Let it go," he says evenly, squeezing her wrist tightly—and there will be bruises—until she gasps, fingers spasming open. The knife clatters to the floor.

"You are a _monster_," she snarls, her foreheat wrinling under the force of her glare.

He shrugs. "Maybe."

Oh, but she's not done: with the hand he doesn't have in his grasp, she reaches out, swinging at him. Not a slap, but an actual blow. He likes that—she fights like she means it. None of this damsel in distress nonsense.

He catches that wrist in his other hand, but still, the effort was appreciated.

With a wordless cry of frustration, she jerks against him, twisting her skin red in his grip as she pulls. For his part, he doesn't grip tighter, doesn't move, but just lets her struggle. There's life to it too—a few strands of her hair come loose, scattering down across her face, jerking in time with her struggles. It's as though she hardly cares that she'll have bruises.

When she stops, he lets her go.

"I wouldn't advise trying that again," he intones calmly. And he really wouldn't… although, he can't really say he doesn't find her spirit appealing. He's never liked weak women, and Padme Amidala does not appear to fit that mold in any sense.

As determined as she was a moment ago, the way she rubs her right wrist with her left hand indicates that she does have at least some care for whether she's injured—and already the bruises are rising. "Why? Going to return the favor?"

Really, that's… almost insulting. It takes him by surprise too, and he draws back from her, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing her with a stern glare. The look is returned, which he finds interesting—even now, she's still not afraid of him.

"Contrary to what you obviously think of me, I am not a coward. I have nothing to prove. I am well aware that I could kill you with my bare hands—with my _mind_—if I wanted. I have no need to prove to you my physical superiority."

Strangely enough, she seems surprised by that. What, did she think he'd be given to bouts of domestic abuse? There's no point. And… he's seen the bruises his mother had from Palpatine. He won't do that. Restraining her when he tries to assault him is something else, but he _won't _hit his wife—it is, just like he told her, nothing but cowardice.

And no one ever said Anakin Skywalker was short on courage.

"I would suggest you don't try this again," he says casually, leaning down to pick up the knife. Not looking at her, he slides it back into its holder. "Because while I may not physically harm you, you should keep in mind that you _do _answer to me now. Really, I'm not sure why that's such a problem: I'm told by very reliable sources that I'm better than my father, who, technically, you answered to before when you were in the Senate."

She scowls. "I doubt Obi-Wan means that he's satisfied with your moral state."

"Oh, Obi-Wan isn't the one who tells me that. Usually, I'm informed by the people I kill when they find out I'll make it quick. Unlike Palpatine, I don't get joy out of toying with victims. An execution is an execution—killing is not enjoyable. Just necessary. Palpatine… does not see things that way."

That's enough for now. He's made his point. He'll… maybe he'll tell Obi-Wan to go talk with her. Obi-Wan probably intends to anyway. So, yes, he'll have Obi-Wan pay her a visit, and more the better if he actually _wants_ to. He can try to calm her a bit. That's for the best, he supposes as he turns away and strides out of the kitchen, past the remnants of their breakfast—did this meeting really start out so innocuously as a conversation over food?—and out the door. She does not call for him to come back, and he does not look to see her expression, because why would he actually care what her mental state is at the moment? He's not going to fix it—he's not good at that sort of thing. Obi-Wan is the one who soothes, who negotiates things into a more workable situation when Anakin has the inclination to let him. He's very good at it.

So, Obi-Wan can do that now. Make Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker—whatever her name is—see reason.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey, everyone! Thanks so much for your patience. I know the updates haven't been all that quick in coming. Also, I know I haven't been answering reviews. Sorry about that! I'm going to start back up on that with this update. Thanks a lot for sticking with me!

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><p>Obi-Wan wakes to shaking. Someone's hand is on his shoulder. That wouldn't be so unusual—he's sharing the bunk with Garen Muln, and it's not so uncommon to wake up in a tangled mess of limbs given the size of the place where they sleep. These beds aren't meant for two. They aren't truly meant for anyone really, considering how they're all lined up in a long room that's lit with harsh, artificial lighting that still manages to somehow not be enough to really see by. Harsh, but not bright. Just hard lighting.<p>

It _is _Garen who's shaking him, but when he cracks open an eye, he notes that, standing behind Garen, is a page. Ah, so Anakin wants something. It must be later than he thought.

"Yes, I'm up," he mutters, sliding down off the bed. He shoots a quick look at Garen as he stretches, trying to work out the kinks that sleeping on a hard mattress has left. Pitiful. Everyone else endures this every night. "Thank you."

"Sure thing," Garen quips, rolling over onto his back and shooting Obi-Wan a grin. "You're getting old, Obi-Wan—we both know your back couldn't handle a night on the floor."

He just barely manages to avoid rolling his eyes. "We're the same age, as you well know."

"I wear my years better."

If only that were true. In reality, Garen looks older than Obi-Wan, mainly in the lines of his face and the gray streaking his hair—signs that come from time and a body wearing out. It's not surprising: while Obi-Wan was caring for a child, doing his best to make him, against all odds, into a good man, Garen has been doing physical labor. Helping to raise Anakin, Obi-Wan knows, was not an easier job by any means, but he does—at least on nights when Anakin isn't in a temper—live a better physical life. He doesn't usually have to sleep on beds that hurt his back, and the rooms he has are clean—not like this. In some ways, he's very lucky.

As lucky as any Jedi can be anymore.

Reaching down as he climbs out of bed, Obi-Wan scoops his tunic off the floor and pulls it on. It'll do for now, considering all his clothes are either at Satine's or in Anakin's spare room.

"It was just a joke," Garen says a little sadly as Obi-Wan pulls on his tunic.

Goodness, was he that obvious? He should be able to hide his emotions better by now.

"I know," he says once he has his shirt on straight. He even makes the effort to smile, but the movement makes his cheeks ache.

"Do you?"

"I do."

Garen shakes his head. "I wouldn't want to do what you do, you know. At least where I am, no one cares much. But you—every second of every day, you have to think about what you say, about how you say it, about what you can change and what you can't. It's—"

Obi-Wan cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "It's not nearly as bad as it seems."

"Because you think he can change?" he asks, merely watching as Obi-Wan moves to leave.

Yes. That again. Anakin… is not Palpatine. And Obi-Wan can know that and never truly convey it, because in many of his actions, Anakin seems to be little different. Just as ruthless. But Sith—Sith don't _love_. They don't care. And Anakin does. He always has. And Force help him, Obi-Wan has to believe that's hope.

Even if no one else does believe it.

"Obi-Wan—"

"Thanks for the bed, Garen."

Possession, Garen will say. Control. Obi-Wan has heard it all before. Sith want to possess, to rule, and so what if they protect what they consider to be theirs? But that—it's _not _Anakin. Not entirely. He does care. He's controlling, and many of his actions are tainted by that, but that's not _all _he is.

And, Force, it's _complicated, _because that caring is tainted, but it's _there_. Obi-Wan—he's sure. He's seen Anakin at his worst, and he's seen him at his best, and his best is striking. It's kind. Caring.

The page doesn't speak as he escorts Obi-Wan out of the quarters. They never do. If Obi-Wan asked a question he might answer, but he's long since learned there's very little point: any answer he gets will be monosyllabic, simply to make it clear that the page has better things to do than talk to a former Jedi. And idle conversation? Entirely out of the question.

He's half tempted to tell his escort that he doesn't particularly need him to do his job. It's not as though he doesn't know his way to Anakin's rooms. This is just protocol, the sort of pointless endeavor Anakin always seems to be engaging in just _because. _

At least the page leaves him once they reach the door to Anakin's apartments. That's probably more out of self-preservation than anything else, though. Don't enter the belly of the beast if you don't have to. That sort of thing.

Obi-Wan, of course, has to, and, honestly, he does hope that Anakin is in a better mood than he was last night.

"Morning," Anakin greets when Obi-Wan opens the door, slipping inside. Immediately, he's hit by the smell of hotcakes. Normally, that might be inviting, but given what Anakin was supposed to be doing this morning, it's more along the lines of irritating.

"I take it you didn't have breakfast with the Senator?"

Anakin swallows his mouthful. "No, I did. But she likes fruit."

Goodness, Anakin has already been up long enough to have breakfast? Obi-Wan must have slept much later than he'd thought—Anakin is never up before him, and he certainly never has full meals before Obi-Wan has even gotten dressed. "And how did it go?"

Beckoning in the direction of the table, Anakin indicates for him to have a seat. The life in the gesture, however—it's not comforting, because that energy isn't for him. Anakin only gets like this after some sort of confrontation, when the surge of adrenalin hasn't quite dissipated.

Obviously, breakfast did not go well.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan takes his seat—because why would he turn down a good breakfast?—and waits. There will be a story. There is _always_ a story.

"Could have been worse," Anakin admits finally, taking another small bite.

"But could have been better?"

Anakin shrugs.

Of course it could have been, because nothing can ever be just _easy_, can it? Wearily, Obi-Wan runs a hand over his beard, hand cupping his chin, just to muffle his sigh. "Anakin, what did you do?"

"Hey, _she _was the one who tried to stab _me_."

The hotcake he was reaching for slips out of his grip and falls, graceless, to the floor. "Pardon?"

"No, you heard right."

Yes, then why is Anakin _grinning_? "Anakin—"

"I find her interesting, at least."

"Because she tried to _stab_ you?"

"She's not boring."

Really? Not boring? As if Obi-Wan thought she was after hearing _that_. Of course, it's more than a little worrying that Anakin prefers attempted murder to _boring_. "Anakin—"

"Don't worry. She wasn't trying to kill me. She's not capable, I don't think."

Oh? Well, thank the Force for small miracles.

On matters like that, Obi-Wan does have to concede that Anakin is a rather good judge. He has to be: there are a great number of people who _do _want to kill him. His life would end unsettlingly quickly if he couldn't discern who those people were.

"In which case, I'm going to assume that you provoked her?"

For a moment, all he receives is a blank stare. But Anakin doesn't do blank well. Not for long. And, yes, right there—his lips twitch guiltily.

"Look, just talk to her, okay. Maybe calm her down?"

"Anakin, she is _your _wife—"

He nods. "Yes, and she really doesn't like me. _I'm_ the reason someone needs to calm her down. I don't think my continued presence will help." He pauses, eyeing Obi-Wan's felled hotcake accusingly. Just wonderful. Now he's blaming _food _when it doesn't do as he wants. "You should eat. You need to eat."

Meaning he feels guilty for not letting Obi-Wan finish eating last night. "I am, Anakin. I was just… somewhat sidetracked when you mentioned you were almost impaled."

"No, I saw it coming. Minutes before she did it, actually. I just wanted to prove to her that it wouldn't work."

Obi-Wan doesn't really need any more information than that. Anakin—he's so often like that. Just push, push, push… "Would I be correct in assuming that, because you knew she was even slightly considering something of such a violent nature, you pushed her until she actually tried to follow through with it?"

Anakin's lips twitch again, promising a smile, but he hides it with a well-timed bite of food. "It should make you feel better that I couldn't provoke her into _actually_ trying to kill me."

"Yes," he mutters sourly, "a very comforting notion indeed."

"So you'll talk to her?"

"I didn't say that—"

"If you don't talk to her, _I'll _have to try, and she's not very receptive to me."

"Fine." In the interest of Padme's mental health, just _fine_. Because if he says no? Anakin will deliberately go provoke her again, just to irritate Obi-Wan. So he'll go. Because Padme doesn't deserve that.

The smile he gets is genuine; it even reaches Anakin's eyes. "Thank you."

"You're—"

Whatever, Anakin was going to say, he never gets to, because his comlink rings, cutting off his words. Swearing softly under his breath and completely ignoring Obi-Wan's reprimanding gaze, he reaches for it, fingers scrabbling against cloth for a few moments before he finds the place where it's hooked to his belt.

"Skywalker," he greets tersely.

This early in the morning? Before anyone even answers, Obi-Wan knows this won't be good. No one has access to that comlink expect him, Palpatine, and members of the Imperial forces. Moments later, when the controlled tenor of a clone answers, he knows he's been proven right: not good. "Regretting to inform you, My Lord, but there's a small insurrection occurring in the business district."

Anakin stiffens, fingers tightening on the comlink. "And just how _large _is this _small _insurrection?"

"A few hundred people, Sir."

A few hundred people. Oh, just lovely.

"I'll be down."

Always. It's what Anakin does. The idea of it makes Obi-Wan want to just close his eyes and sleep, to not think about it—to not consider whom Anakin will kill today. Insurrections are always like that, and he has to admit, he's relieved that it's a fairly small one. If it were larger, Anakin would probably ask—order—him to come. It's not that Obi-Wan entirely objects to that—Force knows, a lot of people want Anakin dead, and it's nice to see that the boy has enough self-preservation skills to want someone trustworthy-someone who, unlike the clones, is loyal to only _him_ rather than him _and _Palpatine. That's good, and it eases Obi-Wan's mind… but, when he's there, he sees the faces of the people who die. Worst of all, he knows most of them are just casualties of a regime that never should have risen. Sometimes, they are just protesting that regime—that regime where it is a crime to protest at all. More often, the protests have gotten violent. They threaten other citizens.

As always, the protestors pay for their boldness in blood. If the Empire had never risen, it would be a price not required: they would never have protested at all.

Anakin kills the connection and clips the comlink back onto his belt before turning to Obi-Wan. Already he's wearing that hardened expression of someone about to enter an armed conflict, and here, in this comfortable room, it seems entirely out of place. "You'll talk to Padme?"

"If you agree to be cautious. Something about this situation-"

"Just strikes you as wrong?"

Obi-Wan nods. "You don't think-?"

"I _do_, actually."

Palpatine, then. Just another excuse to tighten his rule, perhaps test Anakin, see how he handles the situation. Likely both. And in that respect, there's… hardly any way to adequately describe how Obi-Wan feels about the fact that Palpatine would sacrifice his own subjects—and his son's well-being, though he's long ago proved that Anakin's best interest is not his priority—just to boost his power, but after all the years he's been privy to this sort of thing, it's ceased to surprise him.

"You want me to come?"

"And give him a ready-made way to kill you and make it look like an accident?" Anakin shakes his head. "No, stay here, talk to my wife. If that doesn't take too long—which I doubt it will, since she doesn't want you dead like she wants _me _dead—go see Satine. When she asks where you were last night, give her my apologies."

Which is, of course, as close as Anakin will get to actually apologizing to Obi-Wan. That's exactly what it is, though—an indirect apology to _him_. Satine is merely a convenient go between, a way for Anakin to save face.

Anakin pauses then, face pinched in thought. "You know what? Just go see Satine. I—whatever Palpatine is doing, I don't like it. I'd rather you weren't here for now. I don't want you running into him."

"I can't really object on that count. I don't much fancy a chat."

Still, Anakin seems troubled, though not the sort of troubled that comes with the impending certainty of slaughter. That, for Anakin, has become a job, and while Obi-Wan doesn't like to think on that—not if he doesn't have to—he's learned to recognize the shifts in moods that it causes. This is not it.

"Something else?" he prompts, waiting. Anakin will speak eventually. He always does.

"No detours," Anakin says finally, eyes jerking toward the door, then back to Obi-Wan's face. They seem darker—not nearly as light a blue as they usually are.

"I don't know—"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. And you know that, so far, you've managed not to let me catch you at it. Doesn't mean I don't _know _about it. I'm telling you, though—not today. Something feels off about today."

Obi-Wan doesn't respond. He's not sure he could push words past the aching dryness in his throat. Someday, probably fairly soon, he's going to have to choose his loyalties. But he won't speak before then.

"Obi-Wan?" Anakin prompts, more sternly this time, eyes sharper, more focused. He extracts a promise in the same way he extracts a confession: Obi-Wan has been on the receiving end of both, albeit not in such a painful fashion as he knows others have been.

"I don't know—"

Strange how that denial makes the muscles of Anakin's face twist in a sort of amusement. "You're such a liar," he says almost fondly, shaking his head and laughing. Though the look deteriorates into a glower a few moments later, it _was_ there. What prompts it has always has been there, this strange sort of mix of amusement and admiration that he regards Obi-Wan's evasiveness with. "But I'm still telling you: don't do it. And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. Just don't do it, and I won't ask you about what you didn't do."

Fair enough. The not asking part, at least. There is still a very good chance that he may end up doing exactly what Anakin is warning him against, though. Chances like these—they're very few now. It's true that the resistance in the Outer Rim is growing, that Master Yoda has, rumor says, organized the Jedi that managed to escape the purges, but it's still not enough to make opportunities commonplace. If he is called tonight, he will go, and Force help him, Anakin may decide that he's not too good to take a punishment like every other former Jedi after all—though, Obi-Wan doubts it, given the situation in which Anakin first found in—but even if that happens, it will be worth it.

Finally, just as he's about to slip out the door, Anakin's face cracks back into a lazy, self-satisfied smile. "Don't look so worried, Obi-Wan. Whatever Palpatine is doing, he won't kill me." The smile turns darker, edgier. "Mom did, after all, make sure he didn't get the biological heir that he wanted. He's stuck with me. We all know it. Might as well make use of it."

Yes, that's all true, but the price had been so high. Too high, and Obi-Wan can remember dragging Anakin away that night, holding him, rocking Anakin as the boy choked out sobs, covered in blood. Can anyone _really _blame him for wanting Palpatine to die for that?

"Doesn't mean he's not playing a game with you. He toys with what he hates, Anakin, and we both know he hates you for not being what he wanted."

Yes, for that _and _for being a remnant of the master that left him scared and disfigured, severely weakened in power. Mortal, and at a rate far more accelerated that it might have been had Plaugus gone in his sleep like Palpatine intended.

Anakin nods. "I'll be careful."

"Thank you. And, Anakin?"

He pauses at the door, back to Obi-Wan. "Hmm?"

"If this is a setup of Palpatine's, I would ask you to remember that you're killing people who have been manipulated into doing his bidding."

"It's still a rebellion, Obi-Wan. Those who aren't a part of it—peaceful citizens—are threatened by it."

"Anakin—"

"I won't kill if I think it's unnecessary. That's the best you'll get. Now, I'll see you tomorrow?"

He leaves when he gets Obi-Wan's nod of confirmation, letting the doors shut behind him with the same finality as his words. Won't kill unnecessarily. What _is _that? So often, it's different for him and Anakin. Always in the definitions. It can't be helped, though, not with the games he and Anakin play. Definitions are so very important to that game, to telling the truth while still lying, to evading, and to manipulating the other into a desired action. They couldn't exist any other way, not unless Obi-Wan wants to mindlessly do what Anakin tells him, and neither of them really wants that.

Necessity, however, is not always correlated to enjoyment—oh, what he wouldn't do for a straightforward interaction.

Perhaps it really is time to go see Satine. That's long overdue, actually. At times, it's easy to believe that his wife keeps him sane. And really, that thought—how can it not make him wonder whether he would have been a good Jedi? Too often, he finds himself attached to people, and for a good long time, he tried to fight that. Only, the Order is dead, and he doesn't have the same responsibilities a Jedi would have. If he had those responsibilities, it would be necessary, but that way of life collapsed years ago: when Qui-Gon died, he knew with absolute certainty that it was over. He would never be a Jedi.

But he is not a Jedi, he thinks as he heads for the door. A Jedi would not be going to see his wife. A Jedi would not be permitted to have raised a child in the way he raised Anakin. Padawans are not the same: if he had cared for Anakin in the way he cares for him now, he would not have been a proper master.

Yet, he cannot really see himself being different. Jedi or not, he cannot imagine having no attachments. If the Order had survived, could he _really_ have been a proper Jedi?

But he is _not_ a Jedi, so he goes home to his wife, letting the doors close behind him, just a surely as life closed down on his chance to be anything but what he is right now.

So final.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a man dead in the street this morning. Shot. Stabbed. Both, as though his assaulter could not decide just how to kill him, and thus utilized both methods. Satine does not care to guess which method actually killed the man.

In another life, Satine Kryze could have been a pacifist. She certain of that as she stands on her doorstep, watching them load the body into a transport. There will be no investigation launched, she is sure: the man was a suspected rebel—though not proven—and this part of town does not have a high rate of crime—this was no accident. Perhaps the fact that the Empire had him killed here is a sign that they are becoming sloppy. Perhaps it is simply a sign that they do not care who knows what they have done. Soon, they may not even bother to make it look like someone else's doing. It wouldn't surprise her if, one day, she simply begins to find people dead in the streets, having been executed in plain sight by clones.

Yes, days like these, pacifism looks more and more attractive. If not for the fact that if they don't fight back, days like these will never cease, she'd be more than happy to swear off violence forever.

Leaning against the doorpost, she tries not to consider just how long these days will last, pacifism or not. Already, her head is throbbing—there is a man _dead _in plain view—and she doesn't need to make it worse. Tension, Obi-Wan tells her, and she wouldn't be surprised. These days, there's a lot of tension.

Given her current… _situation_, tension is not in her favor.

As she watches, the transport pulls away down the street, body safely ensconced inside. She will probably never hear another word about that man, though she _did_ know him. Knew him well, actually, though she has never spoken to him, never even had contact with him. She _does _know him, though, because if she weren't married to Obi-Wan, she could quite easily _be _him. Dead, that is. Killed for suspected association with rebel factions.

"I take it I'm not the only one who isn't having a pleasant day?"

Jerking back against the door at the unexpected—and yet perpetually expected—voice, she laughs a little—humorlessly, of course, because moments ago, there was a man _dead in the street_—but does not turn to the side. Instead, she just keeps staring out toward where the man was moments ago. It's becoming busy again now, traffic resuming, and the scent of the heat of the duracrete tickles at her nose.

"You just missed the funeral procession," she says tiredly. Ten o'clock, and already she's tired.

When his body molds up behind her, she sinks back into it, grateful for the stability. "There will be more," he mutters, leaning his forehead into the back of her shoulder. "Today."

He's tired too—she can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he leans against her. She supposed he would be when he didn't turn up last night, but it's always difficult feeling the proof under her hands, against her skin. He tries so very hard, but in the life he's living, success is fleeting while disappointment is almost constant. It's enough to make anyone tired.

She turns then, slipping back through the doorway into the entryway of the house. The door zips shut behind her as she leans her back against the wall, letting him push her into the plaster, his hands on either side of her waist as he rests his cheek against her hair, leaning into her while he simply breathes.

Force, it's good to have him home. It's been, what? Three days now. She wasn't worried—not too much—but there's still something relieving about now having the chance to wrap her arms around the back of his neck, sinking her fingers up into his hair and holding him close. Mutual comfort—because they _do _both need it, and former Jedi or not, sometimes he _does_ just need to be held. "What happened?"

"Another riot. Anakin was sent out."

"And that bothers you just as much as the riot, doesn't it?"

"Killing has become normal for him. Palpatine—he's succeeded in that."

"But not in everything."

"No, not in everything. Anakin is—he's not what Palpatine wants. He cares too much. Still has mercy."

"But you worry that isn't enough."

Obi-Wan sighs then, pulling away from her, letting his hands drift up to rest on her shoulders. They sit there lightly, gently, and he makes no protest when she raises her own hands to skim against his waist. "He still wants to rule. He wants power. And he'll kill for it."

"You haven't lost him yet."

She really does believe that. If there's anyone Anakin Skywalker would listen to, it's Obi-Wan Kenobi. Obi-Wan doesn't understand it, but Satine—she's seen Anakin in a way Obi-Wan can't ever objectively do, and she knows that, as much as Anakin wants power, he craves love too. He's attracted to Obi-Wan's light in the sense that he wants that light to love him—_wants _that light in the Force, wants what he's only ever seen in Obi-Wan. He doesn't understand it, but he's fascinated by it. But lust for power and love for that light—they don't coexist. Not properly. Eventually, he will have to choose.

But, for now, they don't have to face that. Not directly. "Where were you last night?" There is, of course, some humor to be had in that question: a phrase like that is the quintessential question of a jilted wife, worried about an affair. How humorous that, in her case, she's worried about nothing of the sort. If she were, it might be simpler. Not something she wants, but, still, less complicated.

Obi-Wan's lips quirk into a half smile. "Anakin sends his apologies."

Oh, yes, he always does. "What kind?"

"The kind he makes when he knows he's wrong."

Meaning he didn't have something he needed Obi-Wan to do. He was simply irritated with Obi-Wan and decided to express that irritation via retaliation. However, given that Anakin is apologizing and Obi-Wan is here today, Anakin must have concluded that his irritation was unfounded.

She nods, following him when he moves away from her and makes to head further into the house, in the direction of the sitting room. Clearly, it really has been a long morning for him: he only goes for the sofa this early when he simply has no inclination to deal with anything not absolutely necessary.

"I'll hazard to guess that he didn't take well to Miss Naberrie?"

"You guess right," Obi-Wan mutters, grunting softly when she settles down onto the couch as well, half on top of him. "He was fairly irritated when he finally realized I suggested her because she shared my views on the failings of the Empire. Apparently, from that he also concluded that I wanted him to get married so he'd be too distracted to notice my extracurricular actives."

"Palpatine was the one who strongly suggested he get married. And Anakin was the one who told _you_ to pick someone, because he didn't want to be bothered."

"As you well know, Anakin tends to have a bit of a selective memory when he's annoyed. Even more so when he thinks he has reason to doubt the loyalty of someone he cares for."

Stretching out more fully, she tucks her head under his chin and murmurs pleasantly at the feel of his hands skating up her back, pressing at the knots he feels there, trying to work them out as best he can. He's like that with everything—always trying to work the knots out. "But his memory kicked in this morning?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"For how long?"

"Probably not long. Maybe even less than that. Have you heard anything?"

Heard anything? Goodness, yes. The rebellion is no better than any other group when it comes to gossip. But official information? "Nothing reliable yet. But I wouldn't be surprised if we got a call soon."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it came today," Obi-Wan admits, inhaling deeply, enough so that she feels his chest rise under her, lifting her up before he exhales again. "It'd be a perfect cover. The Imperials are already occupied with a riot. I'm not involved directly with that. If I were making the decision, I'd do it now. Though, perhaps I'm only thinking selfishly—I'd much rather meet at a time when Anakin is too busy to inquire after my whereabouts."

"I don't see how that's selfish. It would give everyone involved a better chance of success."

He hums an affirmative, causing his chest to rumble pleasantly. Goodness, it would be nice to have more times like this—times where they could just lie on the sofa together, talking. Preferably, they wouldn't be talking about war, but the sentiment is the same: she'd like more time with her husband.

"You should go to the palace and become acquainted with Padme," Obi-Wan suggests after a few moments of silence. "You'll like her, I think."

"Do _you_ like her?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure I will as well. More importantly, do you think she can care for Anakin?"

A nod. "I think she can. I think—Anakin is not so unlikable when you get to know him, Satine."

She snorts lightly. Slightly undignified, yes, but then who's here to judge? "Nearly everyone he comes in contact with would beg to differ, Obi-Wan."

"Most don't get to know him."

"He doesn't _let _most get to know him."

She does at least receive an acknowledging sigh for her point. From Obi-Wan she would expect no less. He knows Anakin's faults better than anyone else… and loves him anyway, Force only knows how.

When Satine married him, she didn't expect that she would, in some respects, acquire the heir to the imperial throne as a sort of son/brother. The day dictates which Anakin is, really. What he needs from Obi-Wan in any given moment—and it is _always _complicated—so often determines their rolls.

"I think she can do it," Obi-Wan says after a short pause, voice more hopeful than she's heard it in a long time. Force, that's beautiful. That hope. Her husband. She leans in and kisses him then, just to see if she can taste a little of that hope in his words.

Maybe. Just a bit. And then her comlink rings.

Obi-Wan pulls away from her, shimmying to the side just a few inches until she moves over him, dropping into the space between his body and the back of the sofa. "That would be for us, I presume."

"Probably," she agrees. "I suppose I'll be getting to know the new Mrs. Skywalker rather soon after all."

He grabs the comlink off the side table and hands it to her. "I'm afraid that if you call her that, you won't be getting to know much about her at all."

It's a regrettable fact that Obi-Wan wears his flippancy awfully well. He couldn't get away with so much if he didn't. Still, just on principle alone, she does shoot him a stern look as she takes her call.

"Satine," she says by way of greeting. Her only answer is a stream of well-memorized letters and numbers. Good enough. Though, not good at all, really—she is half-tempted to tell Obi-Wan it was a wrong number. Because does she really want to relay a message that will send her husband into a situation of this nature?

If, as she'd anticipated, Obi-Wan were at the palace still, she might have been able to entertain that thought. But her husband—he has already read every scrap of emotion on her face, has gotten to his feet, and is heading to the door.

She severs the connection on her comlink. "Obi-Wan—"

Already, he's at the door. "We agreed, Satine," he says, smiling, and _how _can he _smile?_ "No goodbyes. If every time I went into a situation like this we said goodbye, we'd be saying it far to often."

Of course, he's right. Her logical, even-tempered, rational husband. He _is _right, and still she can't agree. But she did. She agreed before when she logically thought about it. Not now, though—logic dies in the face of her husband's impending entrance into a war zone.

"Have a nice time with Padme," he tells her, hand on the door. "And steer clear of Anakin. I doubt he'll be in much of a congenial mood after he finds out what I've done."

"_If._"

Obi-Wan seems to find that as unlikely as she knows it really is. "He'll know I've done something," he says. "See you soon."

He's gone then. Nothing but a closed door and lingering smell on the sofa to indicate he was recently there at all. Some of his clothes may be in the closest, and his books might rest on the shelves, but those items—they could just as easily belong to a dead man as one still alive.

They could belong to someone else entirely.

But, then, that has always been Obi-Wan. He does not leave his mark in possessions or items. He leaves it on people.

And _she_ doesn't feel as though he's left at all.

* * *

><p>Bodies everywhere. Smashing into each other, into other things, shouting, and simply drowning in chaos. Anakin can feel the turbulence in the Force, in the way it buffets about him, swirling with fear and anger and unchecked emotions. It's uncontrolled, like the waves of the ocean in a storm.<p>

Frankly, he has to wonder if anyone even remembers what this riot is actually about. He knows how these things go: it starts with a few people, angry over something. They fight amongst themselves, with others, or against an idea, and the confrontation turns violent. Others join. Soon, there are a million different reasons for why people are rioting. It's something different for everyone, even if they've all channeled their rage into a common instance of violence. Really, a riot is nothing more than a mass of rolling, roiling raw emotion spewing out in the form of a violent protest.

It wouldn't have taken much for Palpatine to start this—not that Anakin can prove he did. He _can't_, and he'll probably never be able to. At this point, it's not at the forefront of his mind.

Having people trying to overwhelm him on all sides will have that effect.

Spinning on his heel, he pivots cleanly, slicing off the hand of a man about to stab a vibroblade into his back. Foolish. It takes the man a minute to even realize his hand is gone, and when he does, he just sort of crumples, gasping for air like Anakin took his lungs instead of a limb.

Behind Anakin, the stormtroopers move as a mass, easily eliminating those in their way. If Anakin had wanted, he could have hung back, let them do their work: systematic annihilation. But he'd promised Obi-Wan, and he finds that when he goes in ahead, he's able to deter people by doing things like, well, _chopping off limbs_. Nice? No. But a lost hand is better than a shot to the heart, and if that's what it takes to get them down or, in the case of those who see someone else lose a limb, fleeing, that's what he'll do.

"Rex! What's our status?" he shouts, muscles burning as he swings his lightsaber again. A scream is his follow-through, but he hardly connects it to the motion. The raw, sicky-sweet smell that burns up into his nose moments later—that's harder to ignore. He's no stranger to killing, but that smell—it will _always _turn his stomach.

A blaster bolt rips into a man next to Anakin as Rex hollers back: "We've got the other side of the square locked down, Sir!"

Kriffing good news, that is. When he'd been called out to this, he'd been told a few hundred people, but the crowd has obviously grown since then. It's a bigger job than anticipated. More dead. More wounded.

"Got any other good news?"

Rex drops to his knee, unleashing another barrage of fire at a charging man. Predictably, the man goes down hard, a mess of limbs, sprawling off against the duracrete side of a building. Dead. Anakin would bet on it.

"Not really, Sir!" Rex calls, already firing again.

No, of course not.

"Oh, for the love of—" His lightsaber sears through someone's middle. "You'd think they'd just surrender by now! Or run. Or do something other than keep _coming-!"_

Of course, they don't, not even when it becomes obvious that they have no chance—an opportunity for nothing but death. It makes such strange sense, though. Death is better than torture, because it's quick, and if you don't have much to live for, why put yourself through the extra effort? And even if you did survive, you might be mad by the end of it, and is that really survival at all?

Anakin would know. He's seen it done. To people he cares about, even, maybe not like it will be done to these rebels, but still, it is _enough. _The mere _memory_ is enough to make him surge forward harder, the core of him burning with hate. Palpatine. Someday, he'll kill him, just like he kills the man in front of him, the one behind him, leaving their faces forever frozen in that "Oh!" of surprise. Not Palpatine, though—there won't be enough left of him to have the luxury of a facial expression.

"_No, Anakin! No! Come—no—just—"_

_Hands pulling him away from the mess, and he's screaming his throat raw. _

"General Skywalker!"

His eyes burn—not tears, because he hasn't cried for a long, long time—but it's not for the carnage around him. It will never again be for anyone he doesn't know—hasn't been since he was a little boy who first saw Palpatine torture someone. He can't care for everyone. If every loss ate at him, he wouldn't survive. Feeling like that—he can't indulge in it.

"But I won't lose those few," he mumbles to himself… but it's more than that. It's a promise. It's the same one he's uttered every night for years, right before he goes to bed, and always—_always_—when he sees a blank death stare. And a promise like that—it has to be out loud. It makes it more real.

He doesn't turn when he's called, though he does answer with a clipped, "Yes, Rex?" Under his clothes, he can feel his muscles heaving with every breath, adrenaline surging.

But he is no longer moving… and that is probably why Rex called to him. There is no one left to cut down. They're contained… or dead.

"Sir, we're done."

"So I see."

And so he is wrong.

The Force saves him. Someone normal would not have seen the attack coming, but Anakin has never been normal—anything but—and the sharp screech of warning pulls him at the last minute, sending him into a roll. He hits the ground, tumbling, his lightsaber in the man's back before his victim can even reconsider how to regroup.

How in the name of the Force did he manage to sneak up like that?

A quick look answers that simply enough: he stripped the armor off of a dead clone. Clever. That armor is also enough to have slightly changed the course of the lightsaber, keeping him alive.

But not for long.

"No, Rex," Anakin says slowly, holding up a hand as he clambers to his feet. His other hand clenches tightly around his lightsaber. Rex lowers his blaster and steps back as Anakin slips forward, feet dragging through ground broken by shots. Oh, yes, he will enjoy this.

The man drags himself to his knees, one hand on the wound in his chest. The blood has drained entirely from his face, and given long enough, his wound would probably be fatal.

Anakin doesn't plan to give him long enough.

"I find," he says slowly, drawling out the words, "that I take particular offense when someone tries to kill me _after _the fighting has stopped."

Though crouching in the broken bits of duracrete must hurt the man's knees, he just scowls, looking at Anakin like he'd like to slice his face off and set fire to it. He must know his own death is impending. Bruises to flesh and dirty looks are the least of his worries.

Anakin ignites his lightsaber. "Nothing to say?"

Now he gets a reaction: not much, just a harsh jerking of the man's face. Is he trying to kill Anakin with looks alone? Not likely. The man is young, thirty maybe. And he has kind eyes. He wasn't meant for killing, and it shows. "I don't much care _what_ offends you."

Anakin raises an eyebrow and takes a step forward until he towers over the man. Behind him, the clones quietly begin to form a circle. They suspect what he's about to do, and if the man tries to run, they'll be ready. "No? I'm the one who gets the pleasure of deciding how quickly you die. Be nice and I might make it quick. If not…" He pauses, coldly assessing. He doesn't enjoy torture, but he does consider it a personal affront that this man attempted to quite literally stab him in the back. "If not, I could always turn you over to the Emperor."

Yes, that earns him a glimmer of fear, present in the way the man's eyes glaze slightly. He knows then, has heard the rumors of what Palpatine does to people.

What Palpatine does. Yes, what he does. What he does makes Anakin _sick_.

No, he'll kill this man himself. No one deserves what Palpatine does.

"I take that back. You can offer me nothing," Anakin says after a pregnant pause. "I have no reason to waste more of my time."

That ends things then. He ignites his lightsaber. The man laughs.

Interesting. That's a reaction he doesn't get much.

"Your end is coming, Skywalker," he spits out. Or not. Because a moment later, he does actually spit on Anakin's boots.

No class, this one. Though, if he were in this man's position, Anakin can't really say he wouldn't do the same.

Still, he knees the man in the face, just for good measure.

"So I've been told," he says dryly. Every bedtime story Obi-Wan ever told him essentially prophesied that. Oh, not in so many words, and not about him. Obi-Wan would never do that to a small child. But, yes, they had quite clearly had morals that were not at all ambiguous in how they described what end the dark side would lead to.

But that—it does not seem to be what this man is talking about. There is almost glee in his face, bordering on madness, the kind heightened by the fact that he _is _about to die: for all his bravado, he cannot control the sweat beading on his upper lip or the trembling of his limbs. Even his brown hair, filthy with sweat and dirty and a little bloody, is plastered to his head as though it has already wilted and died.

"Well?" Anakin prompts, pushing the lightsaber toward the man, bathing him in red and bending the color in his eyes. They're mad eyes when faced with color like that—possessed almost.

The man laughs. "You know nothing. Living life inside a palace. You know _nothing _of what we do, of why we would do this, give our lives for a riot we can't win. And we can't." He shakes his head then, laughing so hard that he's almost gulping air, hyperventilating. "We can't win, but others can. And they will. Because of the sacrifices we have made."

A pretty speech, Anakin thinks as he beheads him in one swift motion. A good speech, but never likely to come true.

"Sir," Rex says from behind him as Anakin watches the man's head thump to the side, rolling away like a haphazard tire.

"Yes?"

"One of the men we caught in the riot—he's talking. Real coward, afraid to die. Says his brother is at some kind of meeting. Some rebel thing. If we let him live, he promises to give us the location."

Deactivating his lightsaber, Anakin clips it to his belt and turns around, looking askance. "Get the location. Then kill him."

Cruel? Maybe, but Anakin has no use for cowards, specifically men who betray their comrades just to save their own skin. He may want to destroy the rebels, but he can appreciate loyalty and solidarity, even among their ranks, just as he can despise disloyalty.

Rex nods. His helmet is on, but when he speaks, there's enough hesitancy in his voice for Anakin to guess that, if it weren't, his face would be too perfectly calm to mean anything but trouble.

"The man gave us names, Sir. Told us who might be there."

The back of his neck begins to tingle, spreading down his spine. No. He specifically _told _Obi-Wan not to do anything today. "And?" he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"And if I were you, Sir, I would verify Kenobi's whereabouts." Apparently, Rex receives another message, because his hand snaps to his helmet, like it always does when he's getting information. "Bastard gave us the location," he says after a moment, hand slowly falling away.

Anakin shoves his lightsaber back on his belt. He needs the location. Now. Why is Rex wasting time? "Where?"

Rex pauses again, but just as Anakin's about to throttle him, he seems to sense that, whatever he has to say, the effect will not be lessened by a wait. "I don't know, Sir," he answers, calmly and clearly—and Anakin has _no clue_ how he can deliver a message like this in that tone—in a way that embellishes nothing and instead leaves the fact brutally bear. "As is policy, they immediately sent the information back to the palace. They were given instructions not to communicate the location to anyone else… including you, Sir."

And that's enough to have Anakin mentally uttering all kinds of curse words—because there is only one reason Palpatine would give that order.

Anakin is already running for a transport, heart pounding harder than it had at any point during the riot. "Find out that location, and find Obi-Wan," he shouts over his shoulder to Rex, who's fallen in behind him, running at his back. "When you find him, I don't care what you have to do—shoot to maim if you need to—but get him out of Palpatine's way."

Now. Because if Palpatine hasn't called Anakin back, there's only one reason: he knows Obi-Wan is at that location. Just another Jedi caught in the crossfire. A ready-made excuse for Palpatine, and in one easy move, he'll have eliminated the last person Anakin cares for.

And Anakin will _not _accept that.

He runs harder.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, guys. Sorry for the unbelievably long wait: I did warn you, though, that I wouldn't be updating regularly. Plus, this story isn't done yet, and I've gotten caught up writing another story, so I can't guarantee when I'll finish this one. I do still have a good seventy-five pages, though, before I reach the point where I'll have to write more, so I'll keep posting until I hit that point.

I do really appreciate all the encouraging comments. It means a lot. :)

* * *

><p>A knock at her door startles Padme sometime around lunchtime. Really, though, at this point, it doesn't take much to startle her. After this morning's confrontation with Anakin, it would be a gross understatement to say that she has been left unsettled.<p>

Frankly, she's not too keen to answer the door again. Confrontation she can handle, but this morning's catastrophe—she almost _killed _someone. She nearly attempted _murder_. That goes far, far beyond mere confrontation, and the fact that she was driven there—what does it say about _her_? She just… has to think things out before she faces Anakin again. Get her own thoughts in order before she attempts to evaluate someone else's motives.

But the knock keeps coming, and if she doesn't answer, and it _is _Anakin, he'll eventually walk in anyway, and where will that leave her? Looking too scared to answer the door. No. She will not be that person. He will never, no matter what he tries, cow her.

And so she opens the door.

It is not Anakin. It's not even someone she knows. Instead, she's faced with a pretty blond woman, slender, of medium height, with intelligent eyes—she's a bit started to be perfectly honest. Whoever this is, she doesn't strike Padme as a servant: yes, her clothes are relatively simple, but not to the degree of a servant. The servants all wear uniforms, but this woman—she's garbed in a dress of red material, something durable, but with a full skirt that pools around her lower half. There's enough fabric in that skirt to be slightly superfluous—not something of mere necessity, then. Not overdone, but a hint that she has enough time and inclination to take pride in her appearance. The top, too, is well-done enough to suggest that these aren't working clothes: it is fitted, framing her thin waist, with a square neck and long sleeves.

"Padme Amidala, I presume?" the woman asks with a warm smile.

When she extends her hand, Padme takes it, shaking it firmly. It's a less formal greeting than a bow would be. Interesting.

"You know _me_," she replies, not unkindly, "but I'm afraid I don't know _you_."

The woman's smile draws back to something more knowing, though not any less warm. "No. Not yet," she admits, nodding slightly, intertwining her fingers and letting them rest on her lower stomach. "But I do believe you've met my husband."

"Oh?"

"Yes. An Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Padme feels distinctively as though she's eaten a frozen treat far too fast. Obi-Wan is… married? To this woman? Who is, for some reason, standing at her door? "You… are a former Jedi?"

The woman shakes her head and laughs a little. There's nothing mocking to it—merely amused. "No," she answers, pushing a lock of blond hair behind her ear. "I'm afraid I'm nothing nearly as exciting. My people were mostly killed off in a civil war. Those of us who were not—we found ourselves under the rule of those we had been fighting against."

Oh. "You were—"

She nods. "Truly, it could have been worse. The husband in the family I served was a businessman, and when he traveled to Coruscant, I was brought along to attend to his wife's needs, or to supervise the children. On one of those trips I did, shall we say, run into the man who would become my husband."

There's something in her eyes that seems deeper—no one who merely "ran into" someone looks like that—and Padme cannot quite suppress the swirl of curiosity that rises up in her. Of course, it would undoubtedly be rude to question her guest when she hasn't even invited her in yet.

In fact, it's fairly appalling that she hasn't invited her in already.

Truly, that's pitiful. One encounter with Anakin Skywalker and her manners seem to have disintegrated.

"Won't you come in?" Better late than never; she stands back away from the door a little too quickly for it to be natural.

Though the woman's quick glance and half grin suggest that she catches Padme's shame at her mistake, she says nothing. "Thank you."

"So, you were saying how you met Obi-Wan…"

"Yes," she continues, sliding fluidly into the room, each step measured but light, authoritative but not threatening. She holds herself well—like someone born of far higher station. "Yes. I was out buying dinner for the family. Coming home, I tried to shave a little time off—foolishly took a back ally. Obi-Wan, who was accompanying the son of his master to the market, happened across me as I was having an unfortunate confrontation with a man who was in the business of earning his living by taking it from others." She pauses then, tripping over her unspoken words. When she again starts speaking, there is the distinct impression left in the space of silence—something left circumvented. "Obi-Wan needed a friend. And later, when he was brought to the palace at the insistence of a small child, I found myself visiting when I could."

"And you… married?" Padme asks, beckoning her guest to the sitting area of the living room.

The woman settles herself on the couch in a flow of red fabric, her manner entirely proper. Though, remarkably, she seems to skirt away from stuffiness, remaining warm, almost open. Friendly, certainly. "Eventually. I'm sure you're aware that, as a general rule, slaves are not permitted to marry."

And how to answer that? Even if this woman is no longer a slave—and she very well still might be, since Obi-Wan most certainly is—issues like this are sensitive. Terribly so, and Padme finds herself settling on the sofa next to this woman, hands clenched together. How to proceed?

She needn't have worried: the woman's face softens, and her lips twitch as she relaxes, leaning back just barely into the sofa. "I'm not offended by the truth, Lady Amidala," she says wryly. "You'll find Obi-Wan is, as a general rule, the same. A truth is still reality whether you accept it or not, and only by accepting it can you hope to change it."

Padme folds her hands into her lap, forcing herself to unclench them. She's begun to sweat now, and her palms are damp from it. "I'm aware, yes," she concedes.

"Anakin has his faults, but he cares very deeply for Obi-Wan."

Padme can't quite contain her small snort of distain. Anakin? Care?

The woman's eyebrows lift. "I take it your entire experience with Anakin has, as of yet, been negative?"

Attempted murder? Yes, negative is certainly one word for it.

Her silence is taken as an affirmative: the woman just nods knowingly. "It's understandable. Anakin can be… difficult. But I promise you, he became that way with good reason."

"I suppose that being raised… the way he was… would make things difficult." In fewer words, Palpatine must have been a terror. However, there are things Padme will say, and there are those that she will never stop thinking: the later may not be fit to be spoken allowed to someone of whom she knows very little She knows nothing of her, really. Not even… "I'm afraid I haven't asked your name. You'll have to forgive my terrible manners."

The woman waves her off. "Satine," she answers.

"Kenobi?"

"Yes. Though, I occasionally still use my maiden name as well."

When Padme inclines her head, nodding slightly, the action is genuine. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance." And she is. Very pleased. Something about this woman is just… intriguing. Somehow, woven into her features and manner, she possesses a strength, something obvious, but what Padme is seeing—it doesn't seem to be _all _that Satine is.

"Likewise."

All of Padmen's skills in the Senate, and this is still a difficult conversation to navigate, not because it's not enjoyable, but merely because it's… complicated. So layered with meaning. "You… seem to speak favorably of Lord Skywalker."

An impish smile steals away Satine's evenness. "Anakin. Yes. Sometimes. Other times…"

"Most people don't dare to speak ill of him, not matter _what _the time. Suppose I were to tell him. Why trust me so quickly?"

Laughing a little, Satine slips her fingers down to finger a fold of her skirt. "You'll find that Anakin is well aware of my views. Even more aware of Obi-Wan's. And Obi-Wan tells him directly, at least most of the time. Or perhaps not so directly, even if he does make his thoughts _clear_."

"I—but if I were to tell him, wouldn't you face consequences?"

"At any point in this conversation have I advocated harming Anakin?"

"No."

"If I avoid that, I find that I don't have much else to worry about that."

She says that with such an amused look, eyes dancing and thin eyebrows raised. "Let me worry about how what I tell you will affect me, Padme. I've been doing this long enough to know what pushes the limits."

"All right. I'll concede that," she admits with a small smile.

Apparently that's all she'll get the chance to concede, because Force forbid Anakin would let her have time alone with a perspective friend. No. He has to take that moment to force the door open and come pitching forward through it, face flushed and eyes unnaturally bright. Even his clothing is rumpled, and dark as the fabric is, there are smudges of what looks to be some sort of dried brown-red liquid.

His eyes settle on Satine.

"You _knew_—" he growls out, voice low and throaty as he stalks forward, shoulders back and muscles drawn tight. "Do you have _any _idea? Palpatine is going to try to _kill _him."

He stops at the sofa, shoving his hands into the backrest on either side of Satine's head, bracketing her in. His mouth twists, quivering, forming words that never come out, at least not yet.

There's a dash of pain in Satine's face: the bridge of her nose wrinkles, and there must be more, surely, because Anakin has just told her that her husband is facing death. But, no, even with Anakin hardly a foot away from her face, she manages to schools her features into passivity quite quickly.

Her voice is not as even: "He knew that if he got caught that would be the result," she says, breaking over the last word.

Anakin jerks closer, fingers driving down into the cushioning. "I _know _he knows that! And now I want to know _where _he went and what he's doing before he gets himself killed on some damn fool idealistic crusade!"

How strange it is to see Satine reach up, hands gentle, and cup Anakin's face. There's no fear in her—not of Anakin—but the sorrow in the curve of her mouth and in the lines under her eyes—lines that didn't seem to be there before now—is undeniable. "You know I won't tell you," she says softly, almost sympathetically.

This isn't like yesterday—not when Anakin advanced on her, pinning her to the counter. Padme is not so blind that she can't see the difference: she and Anakin fought as equals. Here, there is something almost pleading in Anakin's temper, as though he's a small child pitching a fit in hopes of making a parent give him what he wants.

But Satine is not giving anything.

Anakin's face grows a little redder, and he raises a hand, beating it emphatically at the air, as though he thinks it can make his words carry greater weight. "So tell me _something_—anything that could help!"

"He didn't know," she answers, dropping her touch from Anakin's face and folding her hands in her lap, sighing. "He suspected this would happen soon—"

Anakin rakes a hand through his hair. "Of _course _he did—"

"But he didn't _know _it would be today. And I won't tell you what he's doing."

"He's—Satine, he's going to get _killed. _Palpatine wants him dead, you _know _that, I know you don't _want _that—" Every bit of his movement is imbued with panic, and his words break down with it—his expression breaks down with it, and Padme just sits and watches it, admittedly somewhat morbidly fascinated. He cares. And _why _does he care? Obi-Wan is a slave—Anakin could just get another one.

But, for whatever reason, he's very literally at the point of losing his composure over the fact that Obi-Wan could die. Even Satine is calmer than he is.

"_Don't _you care?" he says finally, almost plaintively, sinking down on the couch next to Satine. Almost reflexively, he reaches out, brushing his fingers in the fabric of her skirt. "Don't you?"

Again, Padme is reminded of a child with a parent: a young boy, pulling at his mother's skirts, begging.

"You know I do, Anakin. If I had the talents Obi-Wan has, I would go in his place. But I don't, and there is nothing I can do. You know where Obi-Wan's loyalties lie. You know he's prepared to die for what he believes in."

Anakin's temper bursts open again, and he purses his lips, expression fading into something between petulant and furious. "No. His loyalties _should _lie with me!"

"He is a Jedi, Anakin—"

Slamming a fist into the back of the couch hard enough that Padme jumps and even Satine clenches her hands into the fabric of her skirt, he spits out, "No, he's not! He's _not. _The Order is dead! He's doing this for nothing!" He pulls back then, wrenching himself off the couch and careening toward the door.

"You know that's not true," Satine calls after him. Slowly, she raises a hand to her forehead in the first gesture of real stress that she's shown. "You know it's not, and you know he's willing to die for this. He doesn't _want _you to find him."

For a man who's used to everything going according to his every whim? That must, Padme images, be infuriating. Anakin plays the part, too: red faced and tight-lipped, furious.

And then his comlink sounds.

In his haste to grab for it, Anakin almost drops it, but he does manage to collect it at the last moment with shaking fingers, frantically pressing at the buttons until he gets what he wants. "Well?" he snaps into the device.

Across the line, the voice of a clone cuts through: "We know where he is, Sir. But it's not someplace you'll want him to be."

Anakin's fingers tighten on the comlink, creasing white and making the device creak. "I don't care if I'll like it or not. Just get him out of there."

There is a short silence, in which by some miracle Anakin doesn't erupt despite the fact that he is nearly shaking with his mix of emotions. Then, clearly, the clone's voice trickles out of the comlink.

"Lord Sidious already denied that request."

* * *

><p>There's a certain joy for Obi-Wan in seeing his childhood friend again, though it is nearly overshadowed by his sheer dread at the prospect of having her on Coruscant. Bant isn't safe here—not like in the Outer Rim, where she was lucky enough to escape to with Tahl after Order 66. Coming back is a risk that Obi-Wan rather selfishly wishes she hadn't taken.<p>

Still, he can't deny that it's important that she's done so… and that he's pleased to see her. The information she's brought from Master Yoda—it's crucial, if still a little vague. Of course, it's purposefully vague—if this meeting is interrupted, no one knows any exact locations or numbers. Just general figures. If something like that comes out during torture, it will not be nearly as damning as more specific information would be.

Still, the fact that he's seated here in a room with Bant and a dozen or so other rebellion officials would be pretty damning in and of itself.

"What you're suggesting then," Obi-Wan says a little tiredly, skimming his fingers over the chart of the galaxy which displays areas of Empiric control—nothing Palpatine doesn't already know, but certainly not information readily available to a slave like himself, "is that we try to smuggle in lightsabers to the palace itself? A mass exodus?"

Ki Adi Mundi—who has, for the past few years, been hiding in the lower levels of Coruscant—nods, glancing around the room. The other pairs of eyes stare back, their owners sitting silently around the table in this dimly lit back room in the entertainment district. "If Master Yoda had the extra help…"

Yes. More Jedi. "It would get them out of the palace—and with the way they're living, that's just as important."

Mundi probably disagrees. On his left, Mon Mothma also frowns, though she's overshadowed by Mundi when he shakes his head. Anyone would be—after all, his head is, as is common to his species, very large.

And that—it's just such a pointless thought, and one that Obi-Wan has to wonder why he's even taking the effort to think at all. He's tired, yes, but he ought to be able to push through that, to stop his mind from wandering into extraneous places that have no bearing on this situation. This situation—it's too crucial to be muddied with something as human as fatigue. What right does he have to be tired when he sleeps in a good bed most of the time? He is not Garen, not the Jedi like him-he doesn't live like them, and the temptation that thought brings—the desire to just cradle his head in his hands and not look up, never really face the unknowing stares of people like Ki Adi Mundi and Mon Mothma, who can't possibly know just what the Jedi in that palace have been through—that desire is nearly overwhelming. They don't know, and he can't make them know. But because _he _knows, he has to accomplish this.

"I know my priorities sound off-balance," he admits, far more calmly than he feels. "But I would ask you to please try to understand."

The people in this room have not been chosen for their proclivity to bend to emotions—they're strong, all of them… but they _feel_ emotion. Obi-Wan can see it influence them now, subtly, just in the easing of their expressions and the small shift—that sense that they are willing to at least _listen _in the face of someone who _knows_.

"We do, Obi-Wan," Mundi tells him, a little less forcefully this time, the lines around his eyes smoothing out as he regards Obi-Wan sympathetically.

No, they don't know. They think they do, but they never could until they have lived it… and none of them have. Obi-Wan is the only one here who didn't escape Coruscant, and it shows. But they are trying, and that is enough for him.

"We understand the reality of the situation," Mundi continues. "And our goals are the same—more Jedi to aid Yoda will mean the removal of the Jedi from the Temple."

"Yes, I know.

Bant sighs, looking away and across the table at her colleagues, though when she speaks, it's directed to Obi-Wan: "But you worry that, if the situation were to shift to the degree that freeing the Jedi in the palace was no longer tactically beneficial, we would abandon our efforts."

"That is precisely what I worry about."

Across the table, the man seated beside Mon Mothma waves his hand, just lightly, catching their attention. His name—yes, well, someone told it to Obi-Wan when the man came in late, having been sidetracked because of the riots. His brother lives in that area, apparently, and while Obi-Wan can certainly sympathize with that given that Anakin was out there too, he cannot help but be slightly annoyed at the man's tardiness. Sometimes duty demands the sacrifice of peace of mind… and for the life of him, he cannot remember this man's name.

When the man speaks, though, his voice is low and smooth, even enough to provide an explanation for how he arrived at this position. Tendency to abandon duty to ease his worry about his family's location aside—and perhaps Obi-Wan, concedes, he _is _judging that too harshly—he speaks like a man who has neatly collected his thoughts and lined them into a row, ready when needed.

"We understand your point of view, Kenobi," he says, not unkindly, "but surely the greater tactical picture is more important than two hundred or so Jedi?"

Obi-Wan leans forward in his chair, stroking a hand over his beard as he watches the man unblinkingly. "More important, yes. But that does not make those Jedi _unimportant_."

He's arguing semantics, and Ki Adi knows it—it shows in the way he frowns slightly, though not in a manner that suggests he's unsympathetic to Obi-Wan's position. No, he's merely being practical. "What do you propose?" he asks.

"I understand that there is a point where the cost could simply become too high—but I would ask that, if at all possible, you extract the Jedi from Coruscant."

Ki Adi nods, hands coming together on the top of the table, fingers barely touching. "And what do you mean by 'possible'?"

"I mean that I think it would be a mistake to abandon this endeavor simply because it ceased to be profitable. I suggest that we view extracting these Jedi as a matter of duty rather than a convenient aid to the war effort."

Yes, and apparently that is what needed to be said.

He has gotten through to them. It reads in their faces, in the creases of their brows and the slow blinks, the half nods of some, and the contemplation of others. But all of them, he would be willing to bet, though they will differ on their definitions of "possible," would now likely agree that possible or not, an effort should be made unless it is absolutely _impossible._

Maybe they would have disagreed on what constituted impossible. Maybe he's entirely wrong in how he reads their reactions. Obi-Wan will never know—because they never have the chance to discuss it. The door is already slamming open, and the man nearest to it—Fang Zar, Obi-Wan thinks his name was—does manage to lurch for the controls, trying frantically to shut it again. His hand even reaches the panel.

"They're shot out!" Ki Adi barks, though he might as well not have bothered—Zar is shot through the head with a blaster bolt before he can properly make an attempt to shut the door.

His body smacks down onto the floor with a sickening crack. Skull on durasteel. Bones, blood, skin, all just a dead corpse now.

Someone curses, and then the room rips into motion. Through the door, clone troopers come pouring in, surging around them, and Obi-Wan almost laughs at just how unfair it all is. He can't laugh, though, because he has to duck, catching a stormtrooper at the waist, sending him flying over his back and into the hard steel of the table. That's only one, though. It won't be enough.

And it's not. The stormtroopers rush in around them, too quickly for him to categorize them all. He counts, though, until he loses track and his senses numb, tunneling into that place where it's all just a fight. He can't think. Just keep hitting and fighting, no consequences, no thinking about the screams and the grunts, the bodies hitting the floor, or the torn flesh of his hand when he splits it open on a clone's helmet. Thinking won't help him now.

He swings again, hard, and his blood smears on another piece of armor. The clone gets in a hit of its own, though, and Obi-Wan slams into someone—it looks like Mon Mothma, though the smash of steel into his back as he hits the table, jarring him down every limb makes it impossible to really tell.

The blaster at his temple stops him from trying anything else.

Should he? Why lay here, under a clone, letting its fingers wrap around his neck, not quite choking, but just holding him still? Why let it do that? Would it be better to just be shot? Maybe, but he can't quite do that, and so he lets his chest keep heaving—drawing breath—as he stares up into the clone's helmet, imagining that there are eyes there. A soul, even. Some sort of mercy.

Yes, mercy. He does laugh them, bitterly and a little hysterically, because mercy is not something he experiences much of anymore. Wanting it now is a little like wanting rain on Tatooine.

Relax, he thinks he hears the clone say roughly, a shade mocking, and he does. He leans into the table, letting the edge of it dig into the back of his legs. It hurts, but the pain is solid and real, and at least it gives him something to concentrate on. He waits then, staring up at the clone as chaos rages in his peripheral vision. So many sounds, all of them hurting, causing pain, but he tunnels his vision and breathes, wondering how quickly they will kill him.

It ends eventually. He wouldn't know it, except the noises stop, and his own breathing sounds too loud to his ears. The clone must think so too, because it squeezes his neck a little harder, and with the blaster still to his temple, pulls him up and away from the table.

"'Cuff this one," the clone orders gruffly, relinquishing his hold as another clone pushes Obi-Wan face first into the wall, holding him there. Someone pats him down then, fingers just a little too invasive, though he can understand why, given that he does have a small blaster—oh, and he would give just about anything for the civility of a lightsaber—tucked into his boot. They take that, then the knife hidden by his hip. Knives and blasters aren't his style, and he's almost glad to be rid of them, or he would be, if he had anything else to defend himself with.

Cold durasteel cuffs wrap their way around his wrists next, and of course they are tighter than they need to be. Mercy for prisoners was a Jedi trait. For the Empire, mercy is only a curse word—a way to mock prisoners before they kill them.

"Count yourself lucky," one of the clones tells him, about as derisively as possible, right before he spins Obi-Wan away from the wall and shoves him hard, just once, sending him down to the floor. "The Emperor requested you specifically."

And he's supposed to be pleased about that? All that means is that he's going to either be tortured to death or tortured until Palpatine thinks Anakin will be suitably appalled. Either way, he's probably not going to come out of this with all his skin intact. That will be… unfortunate, though he'll probably be better off than the others that haven't been killed. He's been through this sort of thing before—at least he's had practice when there was no information to give away. Just a teenage slave with a dead Jedi master… and also with a master in the traditional sense, and one who had seen fit to beat him bloody for daring to lash out in grief at the reality of losing the only father he'd ever known. No one had wanted information. They'd just wanted him to hurt physically as much as he had mentally.

Truthfully, that had been the one time in his life after the fall of the Order where he'd felt like his outside had matched what he'd been feeling.

"You too," one of the clones barks at Ki Adi Mundi, who it seems is also alive. And Bant. Everyone else… everyone else is gone.

Breathe. Just breathe. The dead can't be helped now, and there is a time for mourning—one much later. Looking at death-glazed eyes and shots to the skull will do him no good at the moment.

Bant sinks down against him when she's pushed toward him, meeting him just as he's yanked to his feet. He takes her weight, stopping her from hitting the wall. It's a small comfort, but it's the best he can give.

She looks scared: her big silver eyes peer at him, slightly glazed, like she's half-way dead already—maybe she is, or at least knows she soon _will _be—and she swallows, saying nothing when one of the clones grabs her bound hands and pulls her away from him, pushing her toward the doorway. Obi-Wan goes with her, preempting the hands that materialize a second later on his wrists. _Move_ they say, and he does.

"Wait."

They all jerk to a stop, just inside the door, and perhaps that would be a good thing—delay what is coming—had the reason been different. But for what it is—Obi-Wan would rather keep marching.

Mon Mothma is still alive. Just barely, too out of it to stay still until the clones have left the room. And it costs her. She's shot. Coldly. Like it doesn't matter at all.

She stops moving then.

Bant breathes out slowly.

And then they are moving again, this time all the way out the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Sorry this took me so long. I'm hesitant to post chapters until I write an amount equal to the number of pages that I post.

* * *

><p>The bloody tunic lands, forgotten, in the corner of the room where Anakin tosses it. He's pulling on a new one almost before the other lands—and it doesn't matter. None of this matters. He can't even smell the blood. Rex's words are still pounding in his head; he's grinding his jaw so hard that the pressure has pushed up under his eye sockets and started beating out a tempo; and all he can see in that blood is Obi-Wan's death.<p>

The blood—it doesn't matter. It's what the blood _represents_.

"Your hatred sings, Anakin."

The Force barks out a warning at Palpatine's presence, though it hardly matters now: Anakin never heard him enter. That's not particularly surprising. Palpatine, though not as strong as he might have been if his fight with Darth Plagueis had gone differently, is still powerful in the Force... and Anakin is considerably distracted at the moment.

Regardless, there is nothing comforting about the sound of Palpatine's light snort, almost a chuckle, though the sound is full of too much disgust to truly be anything so lighthearted. Anakin hardly spares him even half a glance: anything more would be a victory for Palpatine. Anyway, a glance is enough.

Palpatine is framed in the door, standing with his chin back slightly—projecting superiority in action as, Anakin knows, he always assumes it in thought—and hands tucked behind his back. He has an aura of authority strong enough to make a mockery of the medic who tried the same movement minutes ago in an attempt to bully Anakin into submitting to a physical examination. Against the backdrop of the dark tan of the metal door, he seems brighter, and Anakin would laugh if there were anything to really laugh about, because Palpatine is entirely the opposite of _bright_.

"You know why I am here, I presume?" Palpatine says after a drawn-out pause, inserted only for the power the wait holds, no doubt.

Anakin steps back from the closet, garments forgotten. Getting out of his bloody clothes was only a distraction anyhow, just something to do while he waited for word on Obi-Wan. Now he's getting that word, and it's terribly backwards that he has to will himself not to react.

"I want him back." The reply comes out as calmly as he can manage, though the hint of a smirk pulling at Palpatine's lips indicates he hasn't entirely succeeded in keeping anger out of his intonation.

Tutting softly, Palpatine saunters forward, the robes of his pompous attire just barely dragging on the floor as he moves. He dresses like a fool—but a rich fool. And he certainly commands attention in his red robes with their slightly puffed sleeves and intricate embroidery.

"I regret to see that I have let this go much too far," he says almost sympathetically—a perfect mockery of it—as he approaches Anakin. He stops in front of him, staring up at him with cold blue eyes. "I had thought that, while abnormal, your attachment to your childhood caretaker was not so great that you would turn a blind eye to his more illegal doings. I never considered that you would fail to turn him over for the punishment he deserves."

Right. Just turn Obi-Wan over to be executed or publically punished or just plain tortured. The frightening thing is, Palpatine is lying. He expected exactly this: he had to have known that Anakin would never simply abandon Obi-Wan. More than likely, he was simply counting on the fact that Anakin would be too controlling to let Obi-Wan do something like this in the first place. In retrospect, he might have had something in that idea—or at least, Anakin has to admit, it would have been better to adhere to this one idea of Palpatine's. Letting Obi-Wan have this much leeway has clearly gotten them both into a very bad situation.

No help for it now, though—now it's just about working them both out of the tight spot Obi-Wan has gotten them into. "He won't participate in something like this again," he replies slowly, meeting Palpatine's cold stare. "I'll be more diligent in the future."

Palpatine's lips thin. "There will be no need. I intend to deal with this situation myself."

As if he will simply accept Palpatine's brand of punishment as acceptable for Obi-Wan? Certainly not. "I'll see to it that he adequately regrets his actions."

It is a challenge, and, Force help him, Anakin can't help but pray Palpatine takes it. Surely it must intrigue him: he will want to see what Anakin will do, whether he would be capable of actually making Obi-Wan regret what he did. And, in all honesty, it is nearly unfathomable that it took so long for such a challenge to be stated. This was always inevitable. _Always_.

Somehow, Anakin's words draw a choked laugh out of Palpatine. Turning slightly, he gazes up at Anakin in much the same manner that one might regard the mess on the bottom of a shoe. Even when he shakes his head, his gaze remains steady, contemptuously fixed on his son. "Oh? And when have you _ever_ been capable of that? For all that he listens to you, you might as well call _him '_master'."

Palpatine thinks so, does he? The suggestion alone—the impudence of stating an insult like that—fosters the beginning of real anger. In another life—one where the Jedi hadn't fallen—Palpatine might have been very right. Anakin dreams about a life like that sometimes—a life where Obi-Wan was his Jedi master, but when he awakes, he can never quite remember the details. It is only a foggy notion, something that feels like it could have been but wasn't. And it _isn't_. And for Palpatine to suggest otherwise is a character slight worthy of serious retribution. Or it would be if Palpatine weren't the Emperor.

Someday, it _still _might be.

"He has no authority over me."

"He has as much as your mother gave him… and giving him _any _authority was giving him too much."

"Mom did what she had to in light of the restrictions you placed on her. Don't pretend it was anything else."

Oddly, Palpatine seems almost satisfied with that: there is an ember of gloating in his gaze, though the coldness of his irises seems to freeze and deepen. "We could have just as easily hired someone. You know as well as I do that this was your mother's misguided attempt to ensure you received the sort of training of which she approved. A Jedi slave," he sighs, sneering. "I should have struck down the very notion."

Oh, and he'd probably considered it. But the idea of his son being personally in control of a Jedi was, when Palpatine had thoroughly mulled over the notion, likely too delicious a prospect for him to pass up, cruel bastard that he is. He had, as far as Anakin can tell, wanted to see Obi-Wan humiliated for no greater reason than the Order he'd been a part of—and he'd expected a nine-year-old boy to develop a propensity for the suffering of others, so great that he would be the one to exert that cruelty. It never happened, though. Not like Palpatine wanted.

"I obey your orders," Anakin replies snappishly. "Don't pretend otherwise. I go where you tell me to go, attack where you tell me to attack. I further the goals of the Empire."

Palpatine at least inclines his head in concession. It will, no doubt, be only a _minor_ concession, but, still, it is at least _something_. "For how long? Until_ Kenobi_," wrinkling his nose, he raises an eyebrow, "tells you otherwise?"

"He often tells me otherwise. I don't listen."

This is an utterly pointless conversation. An entire waste of time: Anakin crosses his arms, bored at the sheer inanity of it, and angry at where it is going. It's going to go where it _always _go. They've had versions of this before. Never has Palpatine gone so far as to suggest that Anakin turn Obi-Wan over for criminal punishment, but he has long been after Anakin to dismiss him and send him to work with the other Jedi.

No, this conversation needs an end. Anakin… has other things to which he must attend. Mainly finding Obi-Wan. And that is the only thing he needs from Palpatine at the moment. "I will deal with this Jedi rebellion as _you_ see fit," _for the time being_, "but you gave me charge of Obi-Wan years ago. That hasn't changed, and it won't. _He _is _mine _to do with as _I _see fit."

Palpatine will not be making decisions concerning Obi-Wan. Not ever. Because if he did, it might be kinder for Anakin to take a knife to Obi-Wan himself.

Instead of conceding, Palpatine draws his shoulders back and inhales, pulling himself to full height—a height fuller than is natural. When he relaxes even a fraction of an inch, the effect will be lessened, and he will again be just an old man, powerful, but obviously aging.

He does not relax.

"And if I were tell you that, this time, I am prepared to deal with him myself as _I _see fit?"

Oh? The lightsaber on Anakin's belt suddenly feels a little bit heavier. "Then I would tell you I am equally as prepared to ensure that I get him back."

Clearly recognizing that for the direct challenge that it is, Palpatine shakes his head, finally relaxing: he turns away, strolling casually to one of the large windows, taller than a man, that eats up the wall. He stands there, staring out it, arms once again tucked behind his back as he heaves out a put-upon sigh. "You do not recognize the danger of this situation? You are far too attached to this slave. He is _nothing, _Anakin. A distraction. A caretaker in childhood, but you have need of him no longer. Now, he is nothing but an impediment to your destiny."

It's no struggle to remain where he is. At this point, Anakin doesn't much dare to turn his back on Palpatine: he wouldn't put it past him to drive a lightsaber into someplace where it won't be fatal, just to stop Anakin from interfering.

"Let me make this clear, _Father_," he begins, voice eerily calm, even to his own ears, "if he is harmed, you will not appreciate the consequences."

Palpatine spins around to face him. In the movement, his face has drawn up tight, and his eyes have narrowed, almost hawkishly. It's disgusting—the sagging fat of his cheeks and chin ruins the angles of the look, even if those things don't manage to make him appear less predatory. He's dangerous. Aged or not, with a deteriorating visage or not, he is still a menace.

"Are you threatening me?" he asks, voice low, all pretense of civility drying up.

Anakin tips his chin back, looking down his nose at Palpatine. "Yes."

That seems to rile the man in a way nothing else has been able to: he snaps away from the window, taking small, quick steps toward Anakin. "You must be aware that your position is dependent on _me_. Or have you forgotten that?"

A counter threat. Delightful. "Don't try it." He cocks his head to the side, smiling nastily and _meaning _it. "I'm your _legacy_. I may be dependent on you for a position, but _you _are dependent on _me _for an heir."

Palpatine's face twists, ugly—more than before—and his disgusting lips bunch like a fat grub, wiggling furiously across his face. "Chance alone has made you so fortunate."

"My _mother _made me so fortunate."

"Yes," Palpatine sneers, and this—it will be messy. Anakin sees it in his expression, in the way it promises emotional carnage of the sort that resulted, years ago now, in physical slaughter. "Your mother. Weak, foolish woman. Met her end for love of a son that shamed her with his deeds. She was ashamed of what you were becoming—you know it to be true. By the end her mind was twisted, and somehow, her _love,_" He sneers over the word, contemptuous as always, but it bothers Anakin more today, more _now, _than it has in a long time, "convinced her that to save you, she could not have an heir."

Yes. Yes, he'd cost his mother her life. No need to remind him. He sees it every day, every time he closes his eyes. But it wasn't him. It was _this _man, with his twisted desires, his need for an heir, his want of someone other than Anakin, and so what if Anakin's wellbeing was what prompted it? It was Palpatine's designs that were the cause of Shmi's actions. For love of Anakin, because of what Palpatine would do to him if he got the heir he truly wanted—one of his own blood—she'd done the only thing she felt she could do.

And someday, Anakin will kill Palpatine for it. Already, he can feel the promise burning in his limbs, spreading outward from his heart like a poison, the promise thumping with every beat, every pulse, every breath. He will kill this man. Somehow. Someday.

"Maybe she just knew she was carrying a monster inside of her," he snarls, leaning down toward Palpatine. He would rip him apart now, if he could—if he wouldn't lose everything, any chance to make his mother's sacrifice worth something.

Palpatine's eyes glisten with malice. "I suspect she would have known the feeling, having experienced it before."

This—it perfectly defines why Obi-Wan is more of a father than Palpatine could ever be. Legality means nothing.

"You know nothing," he whispers, dipping his head and staring up at Palpatine from under lowered lashes.

As expected, Palpatine doesn't move. "If only you could use that sort of force with your slave," he says instead, nearly spitting out the words. "If I thought you capable of it, I might have allowed him the mercy of having you be the one to deal him his death."

Yes, mercy, because at least Anakin would be quick. Palpatine would drag it out, and Anakin knows it, has seen it in the hate he holds in his gaze when he looks at Obi-Wan. That, though—it's inevitable. Someone so dark as Palpatine couldn't help but hate someone as light as Obi-Wan.

The way his gaze strays back over to Anakin, raking down his body coldly, like he's fitting him for a coffin—it's enough to push Anakin forward, closer to Palpatine, and he draws himself up more, threatening in a way words cannot.

"You have no concept of mercy."

"No? Then perhaps, when I am finished, I will decline to show the mercy of even allowing you the body to bury."

There would hardly be a body _left _to bury. Anakin has seen people when Palpatine is done with them, and he won't let that happen to Obi-Wan. It's not a merciful offer anyway, but only an excuse for Palpatine to display what he's capable of. He wants Anakin to see what's left—what he is _willing _to do.

And Force help him, if he can't find where Palpatine is holding Obi-Wan, that's exactly what will happen.

There should be no conceivable way for this situation to worsen. And, yet, there always is. Anakin should know that by now—he truly should. With Palpatine, the situation can _always_ be worse.

The door to the room whips open: if there were two people he doesn't want in the room at the moment, it would be Satine and his new wife. His wife—she has no idea what Palpatine can do, what he and Anakin destroy when fighting. Their crossfire is not a pleasant place to be. And Satine—he could not want anyone here less: he might as well have just handed Palpatine a way to twist this situation beyond anything that could have previously been imagined.

The threat is clear in the way Palpatine's lip curls, his eyes lighting on Satine predatorily. Satine pauses, stiffens, and looks away—not because she's afraid, but because insubordination will do nothing to help anyone at the moment, least of all Obi-Wan. Anakin knows her—if she has to play at obedience and subservience to help her husband, she will.

His wife pauses also, just behind Satine, but unlike Satine, she doesn't know the intricacies of the situation. She doesn't have a husband who could very well die if this situation goes wrong. Oh, she despises Palpatine, Anakin is certain, but she doesn't _know _him, doesn't know how vile and cruel he really can be. And this isn't the Senate, where the consequences of decisions happen somewhere far away, out of the direct vision of the senators. If she makes a mistake here, she will see the effects.

"How fortuitous," Palpatine says after a short pause, his face spreading wide in smarmy smile as he views Satine. "We were just discussing your impending widowhood."

Satine does not flinch. Rather, her shoulders remain back, presence drawn up coolly, worn about her like a shawl. She should have been a queen, or at least some sort of royalty—she commands power like someone of that station. Anakin has always admired her for it, and Obi-Wan—it's a large part of the reason Obi-Wan loves her, Anakin's sure.

Anakin steps forward, beckoning to Satine, indicating that she should go to the couch beyond him. He will simply feel better if he's between her and Palpatine. Padme follows her as well, but unlike Satine, her gaze does not remain firmly fixed on the floor or opposite wall: she looks Palpatine in the face.

Foolish, stupid woman. She's not helping Anakin's cause any. He's already got enough of a problem with Obi-Wan—he doesn't need to have to defend her life as well.

And, yet, he's impressed. Whatever her faults—and in his mind, she's got a lot of them—she's no coward, and he can appreciate that.

What he cannot appreciate is how the situation has been further complicated: she already had Palpatine's attention, but now she has his focus as well.

As Anakin watches, Palpatine tactfully slips in front of her once Satine passes, stopping her journey toward the couch. She makes no movement to get around him, but the quick tightening in the muscles of her back speaks of just how little she wants to be in the position in which she's found herself. "So you are my new daughter-in-law," he begins slowly, assessing. "I regret that I was unable to attend your joining ceremony."

Padme merely nods, dark curls bouncing. Her hair is down today, spilling over her shoulders and down her back. "I understand that you are a busy man, My Lord."

Yes, busy. Busy killing and manipulating. Anakin has seen what _busy_ means for Palpatine.

Though, he does have to concede that Palpatine can be charming when he wishes to—and, like now, when he makes the effort, it is nauseating. Yet, Padme bears his emotion calmly, expression remaining unchanged when presented with Palpatine's smile.

"I appreciate your understanding, my dear. I look forward to becoming better acquainted with you." Oh, no doubt. Amidala is a very beautiful woman. "And, please, I would ask that you not judge your surroundings entirely in accordance with this… undesirable business concerning your husband's slave. I am afraid this is something that should have been taken care of long before you came to join us. It truly is a pity that this must be your first impression."

Again, Padme nods, even going to far as to give Palpatine a small bow. "I take no offense, my lord."

Yeah? Well _Anakin _does, and just what is his wife playing at by doing this? A quick glance at Satine, who is now seated on the couch, reveals equal confusion: it's only visible in the small narrowing of her eyes, the way her hand is just the slightest bit unsteady where is rests on her knee, but it _is _there. She doesn't know what Amidala is doing any more than Anakin does.

"However," Padme continues after a short pause, "I would request that you reconsider your decision regarding my husband's slave."

The collective shock of everyone in the room is very tangible in the Force.

This… will not be pretty. What is she _thinking_-?

"Excuse me—" Anakin tries to say, but is effectively cut off by a wave from Palpatine. The man is intrigued. Of course he is. And does Amidala know that's about as safe as intriguing a gundark? She must. So why doesn't she _care_?

"I believe your wife can speak for herself." Palpatine says coldly, sparing him hardly a glance before turning back to Amidala. "I'm quite certain of it, actually."

Padme darts a look at Anakin, and she—she looks almost _satisfied_. How—_what? _Anakin would—he would_ love _to let her know exactly what he thinks about _that. _She thinks she's winning this? Oh? She has _no_ idea what she's gotten herself into.

"I'm curious to hear your point of view," Palpatine says, eyes searching Amidala's face. It's a gaze so manipulative that Padme can't, Anakin is sure—or he _hopes_ he is—help but understand that at least.

Of course, it's possible she just doesn't care.

"Why would you ask me to spare a slave who took part in a Jedi rebellion?"

Padme gives him a smile so sweet it would be almost unbearably saccharine if not for the steel behind it. Even Palpatine seems to give credit to the underlying strength—his gazes sharpens with interest, and he leans in a few inches closer to her, waiting expectantly. "I have found him to be a great help since coming here."

"Oh?"

She'll have to do better than that. This isn't the Senate anymore. Here, it's just as easy to negotiate with lightsabers and executions, and she'd better be careful, or she'll find that she's set to make her husband a widower at an unnaturally fast pace. Strangely enough, Anakin is… not entirely inclined to want that.

"Yes. He has done much to make me feel at home."

Palpatine chuckles, and the sagging fat hanging on his face wiggles with the motion. Someday, one day those globs of fat will just slip right off the bone—Anakin is sure. He's been waiting since childhood for that to happen. "My dear, while Kenobi can be very charming, I am afraid that charm simply isn't worth the damage that he's caused."

"With all due respect, My Lord, I disagree." And she does—she's _daring _to disagree, and even if her posture is non-threatening, there's strength in the way she holds herself as the focal point of Palpatine's gaze. "Loyal help—and I don't think you can question Kenobi's loyalty to your son—is difficult to obtain. I find that most people are only loyal when you control something that sufficiently motivates them." She pauses then, shaking her head in seeming regret. "A messy business, but so often necessary, I'm sure you'll agree." At his nod—given slowly, indulgently, as though he offers it only out of curiosity for how she will proceed—she smiles thinly. "Oh, power is always an incentive when others depend on you for their power, but that only goes so far. When the price for gaining power in that manner is outweighed by something else—say the threat of a loved one—that power may not be a sufficient motive. I've seen it often—more often than I would like to admit. How many people have been convinced to betray their leaders for love of a partner or family member? Loyalty—and the power promised with it—will only motivate to a point."

She… said that. She did. Just like that, to Palpatine's face. That's bravery.

Or sheer stupidity.

Either way—whatever it is—Anakin's chest feels impossibly tight. She can't have said that. She _can't_ have. And, yet, she has, and he's impressed, more than he thought he could be by her. She's laid down a gauntlet… Force, two days here, and she's already challenging the Emperor. It's crazy, foolish, absolutely stupid… and Anakin is unbelievably intrigued by her willingness to do it.

Interesting. And helpful.

Maybe Obi-Wan was right.

The small smirk on his face, the narrowing of his eyes—Palpatine is impressed as well, though that's dangerous. What intrigues him, he tortures, pushes to find how much it will challenge him. Intriguing equates a possible threat: and Padme has now registered on his radar.

"I sense a deeper meaning to your arguments, my lady," he answers, folding his hands in front of him as he gauges her response. He is calm, even in manner, right down to his breathing, but in the Force he is tightly shielded… and tight shields mean he is shielding _something_. Probably anger.

Her mock surprise is clever—sharp enough to seem authentic, but Anakin is really quite tempted to laugh at it. No one would think it was real; and no one would call her on the fact that it's _not_. "Oh, no, merely an observation, My Lord… though, I'm sure a man as wise as yourself could find a meaning in it."

When Obi-Wan wakes up, he and Amidala are going to get along _fantastically._ Anakin has never met someone who has a natural-born talent for negotiation quite like Obi-Wan's, but this woman—she's proving that she comes close, maybe even matches him.

Palpatine, for his part, laughs, low and caustic, but interested: behind the genteel face that could belong to a doting grandfather, his mind is obviously churning, evaluating Amidala, considering what she has done here. That at least—the fact that he's thinking—it's enough to give Anakin some measure of confidence that Obi-Wan will, for the time being, be left alone. It's not a reprieve—quite the opposite actually, and while that will have to be explained to Amidala later, in the meantime, Palpatine will let her have her way, giving him the opportunity to consider her further.

And Anakin? He will be given time to plan.

"If he has truly been so helpful to you, my dear," Palpatine continues finally, tucking his hands in front of him again, clasping his fingers together, "I will permit leniency and spare his life… though, I am afraid that he does have information which we will need to obtain. And I must admit, I do worry that my son will… overlook," he pauses, glancing icily at Anakin, "this particular indiscretion."

Overlook? Oh, no, Obi-Wan is going to regret every second of this. But, still, Anakin would very much like to kick something: Palpatine, whether or not he's indulging Amidala, still wants his pound of flesh, and, by the Force, he _is _good at getting it. "Yes, My Lord," she answers stiffly, because what else _can _she say? She's gotten the basis of what she wants, and the balance she has reached—it is far too delicate to risk pressing further.

"I am glad that we are in agreement," he replies with a well-mannered nod. No one will ever fault his manners, or the perfect way he bows—he is the consummate politician in manner. But he's evil. Down to the core. And when negotiation fails or he tires of it, he has other means to get what he wants.

And that is why Anakin feels sweat beading on his palms, forming also at the back of his neck. His heart is beating too quickly, tap dancing against his chest, and he doesn't care to stop its accelerated rhythm, because he needs the energy it's allowing him.

Obi-Wan will not tell Palpatine what he wants to know… and that means those other methods will be utilized.

Though Anakin doesn't doubt Palpatine can sense his worry—sheer fear, really—he doesn't acknowledge it, instead turning away from Amidala with a quick sidestep, pivoting with a flare of robes. Someday, Anakin is going to _step_ on those robes and laugh when they tear straight down the back. Not even Palpatine will look dignified in torn robes… or with his head lying on the ground. Anakin's fingers itch at the thought and he hurriedly crosses his arms, lest they somehow develop a life of their own and try to accomplish that goal a little too early. Not yet. Not today. For now, let Palpatine march out of the room, head back, smiling, because he thinks he won—and has, for now. Someday, it's not going to be like that.

"Oh, and, Anakin?"

He doesn't reply. A stare is enough.

"You're deploying. The details will be sent to you shortly."

The door shuts behind him. So does Anakin's mouth, because what can he say to that?

Nothing. And so he will begin packing.


End file.
